The Closed Door
for Eli Williams, aged four days
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on; nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
So soon, too soon, my grandson was torn from
Me, my lifeless arms left empty of him,
Never having known our newborn embrace,
Nor ever having seen his first known face.
I exist now with the memory of
You already, our brief life forbidden,
A candle, burnt out, before it even
Had a chance to soar, to magnify my
Dreams in the silence of time and to make
Them last for evermore. Before you were
Ever born, you kept me alive for nine
Months more, anchored at the core of being
To the closed door to come. How to endure
When time is no more than a starless shore.
13th August 2014
The world is larger now that you are here,
A new frontier palpable and sheer,
The days sear far into the stratosphere.
Your memory, perpetually near,
Is a bulwark for the hours as they veer,
The unsalvaged years from Truth and Beauty
Roll back low as though their own tsunami
And wake, and break against infinity,
I hear in the echoing terminus
The last mayday and muted sound of us.
In this bleak world between heaven and hell,
Time was left to spiral in parallel,
Yours was the face I never thought to see,
Unimaginable the time to be.
22nd August 2014
Brenda Williams © 2015