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.
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