Talking with my mother in an empty house
1
pale and delicate
much too frail to survive
an early butterfly
blows against your rose bush
and is caught on a thorn
the white of its shredded wing
a sudden shriek
bleeding snow over the garden
did you write those words to disguise my voice?
am i the butterfly?
does your writing echo my cry?
thoughts pound through my head
like waves on the shoreline
each spoken word
a grinding of tiny pebbles
rogermoorepoet 
This was beautiful. I’m new to blogging and would appreciate it if you could read my work and follow if you find it good enough .Thank you
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Welcome to the blogging world. I am so glad you liked this poem and I will most certainly visit you. Thank you for dropping by to visit me.
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It was a please and thank you for being so welcoming..feel free to leave any comments and criticisms…any suggestions would be considered helpful thank youu
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We poets must stick together and what YOU are writing is poetry. Thank you.
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It was a please and thank you for being so welcoming..feel free to leave any comments and criticisms…any suggestions would be considered helpful thank youu
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So poignant, love and loss. It does feel like the departed talk to us when we are in the spaces they used to occupy. – I’m catching up today after a busy weekend!
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I ound these quite by chance, buried in the old pc files. I was looking for something else. They wer written 28 years ago but never taken further than note form.
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A hidden treasure! How wonderful!
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Beautiful, Roger. You can hear the notes of love and loss in it.
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Thank you, Tanya. I have been working on the sequence all day. I am so glad I re-found it. Just cooking supper now … another day gone and Clare not too far away … we write and Skype and talk regularly.
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“Come home, Clare!”…Lol
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I like this too roger.. 😍😍😍
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Thank you. It’s an older poem, as I explained below. I am re-examining the sequence. I put it aside for “later” and I have just re-discovered it.
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It’s a good 😊 one
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I like this Roger.
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Thank you, Allan. It’s an old poem (1988), written just after my mother passed away. My father was in hospital and I flew home to an empty house that was filled with spirits that whispered to me. This sequence of poems is the result. The italics represent my mother’s voice.
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