The Three Women

This poem came on the 5th May 2017. It is in honour of, and with high regard for, the lives of Ingrid Beazley, Rosemary Beazley and Brenda Joughin.

May they rest well. Deservedly so.

 

The Three Women.

 

Maisie and I tumbled  and blew up the mountain.

Carningli, grumbling in the wind blown heat.

And I laid three bunches of posies from Penrallt

At the cairn, where others too are remembered,

A horse shoe, soil from Sicily and the USA,

A small plastic goat,

Fragments, incomplete.

 

Set the flowers down amidst the small rocks

As crows swept across, in shrouded flight

Jinxing their way towards Morfa Head,

the sea below them

indigo saltwater blue,

silver trailed, swirling,

dancing ever towards the Westerling  night.

 

Three women,

today, your lives we celebrated.

You are resting, sleeping, beyond age and now,

by life’s sometime trials,

untainted.

 

But you were :

Workers, mothers, sometimes warriors,

Creators, comforters, wives and wise,

lynch pins of this vexing world,

in your own,

differing ways.

 

The flowers are flags, splashes of colour to lighten our darkened world,

Honouring you lives, your loves,

the canvasses on which you so vividly painted,

across the years, the months,

the  weeks

the days.

 

We turn away now.

Homewards bound.

This May afternoon is muted, hushed.

Thrift, gorse, bracken splashed.

Splintered with sunlight.

Quietened by your passing

and by our loss of choices.

We, your family,

your friends,

your devotees.

 

And yet, perhaps,

now and then,

we will hear your voices,

enraptured, kaleidoscoped,

catch your cries of delight.

Lingering still

on the hot breathed breeze.

 

 

 

 

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