The Rising of the Leaves
The sapphires in her eyes; deep blue, lamenting,
Engaging with the pain of empty chair,
Cushions are her moments of repenting,
In the fabric she finds strands of mother’s hair.
Under lucid gaze the clock turns slowly backwards,
Subverting time itself, and on the shutter screens,
The waxing moon plays out a re-enactment
Of waning life as nothing but a dream.
Inversely the events of life unravel,
The faded grey becomes blue, red and green,
From the empty kitchen comes the smell of basil,
The winter garden; warmed by summer breeze.
A child’s face pressed up against the window;
Her mother walks among the rising of the leaves.