Mother with her precious gold
Quivering in her feeble age,
Quietly waits on her Death bed
Dreaming dreams that make her cry,
Listening to the icy winds rush by.
At the top of a frozen hill
Frigid hands are rushing
Through her twisted hair.
She’s old and yet more golden
Than a seasoned summer pear
Still Clinging to the bough,
Waiting for a final solar flare.
Hoar Frost mutely stalks,
Claiming Rose’s round hips,
Raping with bitter force,
Ravaging and waging remorse;
Her furrowed belly must bear
The cold kiss of Despair.
Winter’s militia appears
Like a dream; mysteriously,
White snowflakes reel around
Casting a net of iridescent Pearl
Illuminating tamaracks and dry grass,
Trembling in a whirl of leaflessness.
Lending emptiness to the scene,
Poplars bow and bare themselves
Not seeming to care whose
Faded clothes they wear.
Night falls and Nature’s heart succumbs.
Her sequined clothes and jewels
Are crudely tumbled on her bed,
Like leaves scattered on the ground.
Death’s White Knights settled on her
Like thieves not making a sound,
As they seized her final breath
And danced upon her barren mound.
Causes Wendy McNally Supports
Cancer Support; Sick Kids