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Rhododendron bush loomed over one side of the gate; a purple growth fully in bloom. The silent stalker waited, his breath leaving silver traces in the light of the moon, invisible behind unscanned shades; swung the gate open onto the cemetery. Poppy thickets bedded the thinning path like inversed clouds of the sky. Picked, white and red halves; the boy gripped his bouquet tight, lovingly tight, as a traveller might his trusted staff; then entered into the graveyard. One visit to his mother’s tomb, was all the boy desired. One memorable trip. Winter gloom. The dark wired with star strips, illuminated the mystical doom of the night sky. “Money, whatever you’ve got.” Steely knife thrust into innocent chest. White petal head splattered with criss-cross of spurting red, imitated St. George’s cross. Folded figure. Sunk. Struck the ground. Rhododendron forced past. Thief left Running, running fast as a spinning revolution, at a galleon’s pace. Away from the cemetery. Each step grew light, Guilt melting away through foot, calf, thigh… body began to sway. The thief swirled once more. Drew in the very sky with each lung’s intake of air. Air thick with howls of the phantom host, the murderer glanced up sharp, afraid, thrilled, spooked, mad; before him, outstretched, the silhouette of a mother’s ghost. She grasped at the flesh of the man within her sight, gripped hold of the flowers, picked by her son. A final claw to the face; two lay dead. Each marked by a memorial. For the boy, Chrysanthemums white, For the murderer, Poppies red.
Evening thickened black. As if powdered flour was being poured into the air from heaven’s stitched sack. As if night’s vessel was being moored above the muddied, meandering track which led to the cemetery. For the woman who had carried him safe in womb the boy wished to shower her newly pressed tomb with family favourite flowers fully abloom. The boy’s boots squelched deep. Hastily he travelled… until a stop. Through moonlight he peeped, then stepped closer still and marvelled; an irregular patch of Chrysanthemums; clustered. The flowers glowed white as molten iron blade, stems fine and slight, petals pure as midday light. The boy delighted as into sight appeared a spindle of green along the chiselled wall. Ivy caressed the cracks of granite stone. Outstretched tips spiralled majestically, like intricate carvings on a god-forsaken throne; a strand peeled, in the spreading wind, curiously. Unaware that he was not alone the boy clambered on, absent minded.
Rhododendron forced past. Thief left Running, running fast as a spinning revolution, at a galleon’s pace. Away from the cemetery. Each step grew light, Guilt melting away through foot, calf, thigh… body began to sway. The thief swirled once more. Drew in the very sky with each lung’s intake of air. Air thick with howls of the phantom host, the murderer glanced up sharp, afraid, thrilled, spooked, mad; before him, outstretched, the silhouette of a mother’s ghost. She grasped at the flesh of the man within her sight, gripped hold of the flowers, picked by her son. A final claw to the face; two lay dead. Each marked by a memorial. For the boy, Chrysanthemums white, For the murderer, Poppies red.
Chrysanthemums White; Poppies Red. (An homage to Gothic Poetry)
skyeclearwater added this comment 2008-09-04 04:05:19-05:00
Wow ... really awesome poem :)
skyeclearwater added this comment 2008-09-04 04:05:19-05:00
Wow ... really awesome poem :)