Note to readers – I edited and then added onto the first stanza of this poem, which I published recently, to create a longer poem about a Widow – no, it is not auto-biographical; just my writer’s imagination.
On windswept streets, she slowly winds her way
crunching long dead leaves beneath worn shoes;
melancholy shoulders denoting nothing left to lose,
overcast mood bleakly corresponding to the day.
Grief follows her like a loyal old dog,
her stern face masking intense heart-felt pain;
completing routine tasks like an automaton,
her life now lived from within a dense grey fog.
Her family did their best to give her cheer,
her few friends have now left her well alone;
as she makes no effort to answer the phone,
distance is extended both far and near.
Conversations with the dead are not so bizarre,
the widow finds solace in such odd banter;
in forlorn hope, by night she lights her feeble lantern,
peering furtively as she leaves her door narrowly ajar.
Tonight in her dreams her dearest will again come,
leading her gently towards a new universe bright;
holding hands as they walk towards glowing white light,
feeling sweet love like when they were young.
Next morning, she wakes with lingering smile fey,
the dream stays with her long after arising;
all day enjoying whimsical daydreams of reprising;
perhaps tonight she can find the way to stay.
Stephanie Mohan -January 2015