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Open Poetry #40
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The Dove IBurial of a baby)
| Open Poetry #40 |
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The Dove IBurial of a baby) |
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Rod Member
since 1999-12-08
Posts 149Auckland New Zealand |
A few years ago, whilst chatting on a poetry forum, I was very moved by a heart-felt message from a poet who had just lost her baby only a short time after giving birth. As a result, I was moved to write this poem for her by way of trying to offer some consolation. It turned out to be longer than I had originally anticipated, as I tried to weave into the story some of the grief that must surely be felt, especially by such Ministers to whom falls the unenviable task of conducting a funeral service for a child or a baby. Only the Almighty has the answers of course, so this poem is purely my own interpretation of one possible way that the Lord might choose to show His presence. By its nature, this poem deals with a harsh reality. When I sent it to the lady in question she told me it reduced her to tears, but that she would keep it forever. When I reread it through (a few days after I wrote it) it brought me to tears too. I hope it does the same for you. Rod. THE DOVE Mute hangs the winter’s icy chill Grey morning mist lies bleak and still; And silence, like a spectre, reigns; Save footfalls, where the snow remains. No breath of wind greets frosted bough Suspended, it is ghost-like now. Ethereal, its woody fingers Rake, but still the cold fog lingers. Bereft of reason, paused in time, The mourners in their grief combine, As callous clouds of anguish smother Family and weeping mother. And none will deign to hide or mask it, As bearers bring the tiny casket White, wreathed, adorned with Cross of gold, It nestles in their careful hold. Beneath the stand of mighty oak’n Ash, the words yet to be spoken Tumble through the Vicar’s mind, His task... the saddest of mankind. As all in sombre bonding stand, The scene knows neither time nor land. And all here present feel its breath; Its iceberg touch..... its kiss of death. Its tendrils, dark and sinister Encompass all....... the minister Takes solace in a silent prayer, And begs the Lord his burden share. Thus all in sorrow stand around The waiting void of new-dug ground Its earthy walls.....its cold embrace A desolate, unfeeling place. A dozen faces, gaunt and pale Give echo to the mother’s wail; For, if the choice were theirs to make, Each one, the child’s place would take. Remote, the numbing second thrives, The little coffin then arrives; Such hanging pall of grim despair Defies the human soul to bear...... A mother’s pain, that tears apart The very sinews of her heart Which shrieks the plaintive, searing cry “What have I done? - for God’s sake WHY?” ~ So sudden - in her darkest hour A vision blossoms like a flower! A portal dark, with light is gifted. A Damoclean sword is lifted. She sees green hills with sparkling waters And countless million sons and daughters. Creeds and colours of all ages..... The book of life’s unopened pages. The partly written page, unfinished, The postponed parchment, undiminished. And those for whom all teardrops fall..... The ones which have no words at all. There’s no disease, no lies, no hate, For these remain at Heaven’s gate; They know no pain, they voice no cries, A love-light shines within their eyes. She’s drawn towards a quiet brook; A white-robed form with shepherd’s crook. His gentle manner strong, yet mild, And, in his arms, her little child. In that brief instant, time was stilled; Her heart with warm contentment filled. And, in His light, she found the power That e’er sustains the unknown hour. ~ Reality again returns, Though in her heart the vision burns. Its everlasting, hallowed flame Restores and dignifies again. With tear-filled eyes, and hands that shook, The Vicar gently closed the Book. From his right hand, a dusty curtain Falls, in hope that’s sure and certain. Then radiant breaks the morning sun; The vanquished mist flees at a run. As silver spangled jewelled beams In dancing yellows, golds and creams Shine warmly on the little grave, The snow, its thawed surrender gave In melting yield, its remnants grooming Crocus flower and snowdrop blooming. She wonders if it’s all a dream.......... The Shepherd’s crook..... the shining stream? Whose attestation brooks denial Within the nightmares of her trial. Her ears discern a call.....a sound! Her gaze, on rising from the ground, Beholds, poised on a limb above....... ...........A solitary snow-white dove. Her wings unfold, with grace she glides, Then o’er the little grave presides; Divine, her presence signifies This child in full salvation lies. In glorious farewell, she flies To silver sun and sapphire skies. Redemption’s herald, winged and white; A candle.......in a mother’s night. “In pastures green; he leadeth me.......the quiet waters by.” Psalm 23 |
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| © Copyright 2007 Rod Walford - All Rights Reserved | |||
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passing shadows Member Empyrean
since 1999-08-26
Posts 45577displaced |
a sad topic and touching write amazing piece, though I wish I hadn't have read it so early in the morning while all is still quiet and I have time to think about it... this will stay with me all day |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
Rod, a most beautiful, sadly written poem, with hope in the middle, to lead all to some kind of end, where all still live, if naught but in memory. It was where the inner vision began, when the tears started to well. I hope the mother that you gifted this to was as appreciative of your efforts as I am now. |
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The Lady Member Rara Avis
since 2005-12-26
Posts 7634The Southwest |
so beautifully done Rod thank you for sharing |
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