Empty Nest
The wind at the window
scratches tiny notes.
I can no longer hear the tune
nor read the words.
Who walks beside me
as I pace my lonely path,
abandoned in this empty house.
My self-portrait
stares back at me:
a splintered selfie,
framed in a sliver
of silvery glass.
Above me,
a monkey moon,
that itinerant tinker,
walks a fractured way
over broken glass.
The knapsack on his back
is cobbled together
from cobwebs and clumsy
veils of drifting clouds.
Comment: Another Golden Oldie from that same throw-away manuscript that I discovered a couple of days ago. I wrote this one the year after my mother’s death. My father was in hospital and I had flown back to Wales to visit him. When I was not with him, I wandered alone in a large house, empty of people, but filled with memories. The whole experience was rather surreal, just like the imagery I conjured up to describe it. Early spring, but a cold one. After hospital visiting hours, I wandered an untidy house and an unkempt garden. My mother had departed. My father was on the way out. I was alone with a life-time of memories. “No hay pájaros en los nidos de antaño” wrote Cervantes in the Quixote. “There are no birds in last year’s nests.” With no brothers, no sisters, no close family, and no friends left in Wales, I found that out the hard way. Those days of wandering, ‘upstairs, downstairs, in my lady’s chamber,’ taught me that most difficult of lessons in the hardest of ways.
rogermoorepoet 