White rabbits…and no returns…
White rabbits…and no returns…
I wished her well in a text.
He ran so far,
Further in his mind
Than in actual fact
But it seemed such a long way
Across the farm
To the farthest fields.
He remembered them in childish dreams
So far from waxen dread.
There was no meaning
In dreaming
No understanding of dying
Not then.
When he was young
Coffins were carried out in silence,
Old friends with aching backs
As stiff as a starched collar
Were always there, on hand
To bear the weight.
Plain-faced and dry-eyed
Hollowed out wives
In widows weeds
Stood,
Old before their prime
Smelling of camphor and carbolic
With reddened hands
Wringing,
As broken hearts fluttered,
Black crows with clipped wings.
Too many poor men die
Behind a plough
Too many wives to grieve them
Too many leeches with bloodlust
Buying up the land before
The grave was fully dug.
Children, set aside and allowed to play
Hide and seek
As far south as the orchard
Given a flea in the ear if they went too far
But never told a word
Even though they knew
Enough to know
Although this was not their time
They too would have their day
Unless they could avoid it.
Did Superman grow old?
The pain of death is hidden
Until it isn’t
So it was said.
But as the years roll by
The meaning of it infiltrates his waking
He can hear the whispers
In the thickening of shadows
And he has developed
An uneasy fear of letting go
When there seems so little
Left to hold
Of any real consequence.
Too many linger on the edge of reason.
He wondered who would know
What it felt like
Does anyone survive this?
Did they all remember
Being allowed to run free
Were the screams of little children
Howling with delight
A hindrance to the business of passing
Or a comfort?
He found it hard to come to terms
With any answer
Not today
As he was sure that he would be yoked in
Behind the plough
Tomorrow.
And if truth be told
He would rather he let go
Standing up
Than lying low
In his old bed
On this dark and ghostly night
With land to work, come morning.