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Death
in the Sickroom
Who
knows more than children
that death leaves its own
disagreeable malady
in the minds of the living
siblings?
All the wringing of hands in the sickroom,
the necessary prayer, the clasping
of hands held in
resignation and despair,
each man and woman –
ultimately alone
in the houses of their
upbringings,
ineluctably aware of their own demise.
They
talk in careful whispers, even now,
behind the shuttered
windows,
where the human family gathers in unity
of
purpose, whilst the bespectacled doctor
and bearded passer-by
are never far
enough away from the apprehension
of
their own untimely passing;
this is how it is with the pain of
separation,
when we look into the green rooms
of
loss with their polished wooden floors
where we turn our backs
from the dying
if only for a moment, we see beyond
the
wasted remains of the long endured
sickness, we see, at last,
the unburdened heart;
this is what it is to love, this is the
divine.
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An
Ending
And then it
happens, another star in the light universe goes out
and the
star gazers are baffled by its demise –
thinking as they
did that it was such an immature star.
From nothing,
through nothing, to nothing (says the philosopher) –
we
are alone here, this much we know, without seeing
the
quickening that would leave the night sky dark forever.
And
then it happens, in that not too distant place
where linear
time is measured in moments not aeons –
the heart
closes to the possibility of connection.
And the
thoughts of lovers were yet to declare
an interest in
creation beyond the reach of the naked eye,
give birth to the
incessant beating of their own ending.
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