MOTHER’S DAY

  

Old age has come upon him. There he leans

Against the rail that separates with Death

The meek who mourn from those who mourn no more.

A bright bouquet of flowers in his hands

Seems to await the moment when the tide

Is once more at the rising, where her fall

And his bereavement unclasp hands and part,

Immersed in darkness deep within the world

That circles round him like some bird of prey--

As we who came but for the pounding surf

And rolling thunder of this gaping hole

Steal glances at the sorrow on his face,

And turn our eyes away, far out to sea,

Where Life and Death are merged, like ebb and flow.