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CHERYL HOWARD
Wrenched from us
- A fog crept in smelling of bad news.
- A denial he got lost in.
- Time, an abyss that swallowed him.
- Needlessly, a fate of inattention.
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- All we were left with
- on that low clouded dark thunder day
- of pungent green hills and valley
foreboding,
- was a barren space.
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- Returning, we took there
- a globe of golden flowers,
- and stood silent in our not-knowing, grey
expanse of blank.
- Something we had revered had gone from
that place.
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- As we drove away, looking back,
- the flowers flared up, a beacon on the
hill.
- As faith signals through gloom.
- From nothing – to fullness abiding.
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