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Mother,
The waxing of summer does not hold the dazzle and glory of memory.
As we weave our sweaty way towards the year’s peak
The shades seem more stubborn, as if in disagreement as to who cast who.
But we seem less solid to the shadows, less than that we seek.
Not a tearing, eroding cataract, but the slow effect of acid on porcelain.
Not the solid blows that render the fighter’s brain a slow pudding,
But the invisible enemy whose presence and waste renders all inedible.
Like dulling disease, forces our unwilling feet to run deathward puppet-like.
In the end, here we stand to praise you, and praise we do, for who know we
Else capable from before our birth. Who knows us as we were, tottering
And drooling, and yet loved us through life's self and on until now.
Now our praise has an edge of blame. We fear we have done less well than you.
You are a now-fading light to our journey and a joy for so long
We will miss you most sadly, our dears, when you’ve gone.
------
Paul Godfrey
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Shark
