Brenda Williams

Words towards an Obituary for Poetry

This is a road I never thought to know

Where memory is mimicking the end,

The future descends on the faculty

Of my soul, my mind struggling for a foothold in

Existence, always the poem, always

The unheard, there is nothing in my hands,

I leave with nothing this world understands.

Unimaginable those early days

The spirit conjuring its poetry,

Forgiveness he cannot borrow or lend

Words unfinished as the first light of day,

Lost as they are, forever on the way

The flickering candle he cannot trim

The undesciphered script of tomorrow.

7th July 2015

For a precious grandson

How I have missed you,

Never having known you

Down the long months.

I am your grandmother,

Brenda, and you will

Become the Keeper

Of my poetry in the years

To come. Welcome dear one

19th November 2014

Brenda Williams © 2015

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