Lost, Without Compass or Star.
For my mother,
Brenda Lynette Creighton,
I put my hand to the tiller,
turn this creaking vessel
into a darkly rumbling surge
of grief, bewilderment and betrayal,
finding in love and forgiveness
wind sufficient to fill my little sail
and lift me up and over the tumult
into water deep and gentle
and sorrowfully compassionate.
Clouds dissipate. The stars are out.
The surge flows smoothly.
My arm, steady on the tiller,
holds the course firm and true.
I know extreme age stole
all her best qualities,
her vision, judgment, empathy
and most especially, honesty.
Without vigour to guide her way,
she drifted vulnerably across the dark.
There are no quiet, protected waters,
only sailing on a sea
that alternately shimmers or looms.
One day, inevitably, the gift
of an overflowing surge will come.
Best if it arrives before capacity
to raise your own sail is lost.
She was always gentle and kind.
What cast her loose, set her drifting
on a last dark voyage
that belied all her previous voyaging?
First published at Anti-Heroin Chic.