CHERYL HOWARD
Poetry—'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.

All we were left with
on that low clouded dark thunder day
of pungent green hills and valley foreboding,
was a barren space.


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.

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.