A poignant poem: a deeply emotional, elegiac reflection on grief, lost love, and the painful nature of memory.
Using the moon and an underground stream as metaphors to navigate the haunting reality of losing a romantic partner to death.
Title.
The Wolf Moon.
(A lone voice whispers)
The moon is no longer a friend of mine.
Even though it shines and looks so divine.
For looking at its gaze resurfaces old memories, hidden in my deep mind.
Spectral memories I no longer wish to find.
Memories like ghostly butterflies which flutter around: like narcotic nursery rhymes.
Butterflies leading me to my hidden, underground stream.
Filled with green foliage of all I've once been.
Some real and some only manifested in deep dreams.
And in those rising waters.
Shining so bright under the moonlight.
I see us.
Standing on a blackened bridge, holding hands with wet palms and sad faces.
And as I race to plead for us to smile.
Embrace and hug for a short while through the so familiar stream.
Feeling my bare feet crush shells from the past.
As I try to run so fast.
I always see what happens in the end.
We were both never meant to last, and as we turn away.
No longer together as lovers or friends.
A white and black poster of us. Always washes past my wet feet.
Embossed with a purple hue.
Stating.
We once loved as all lovers do.
But now it's over.
Walk back, traveller.
And when I look deep into that fast-flowing stream.
Memories of us float past, now dead.
Like our first kiss in the park.
Just before it got dark.
As always, in that sorrow-filled moment, I hear a sound like a lone bell.
Breaking the spell.
And so I walk slowly back up my hidden underground stream.
To the familiar doorway to escape my now-wet dreams
To then wake to see your beloved picture and remember how you left.
You died in January with the first rising of the Wolf Moon.
And it's why she is no longer a friend of mine.
Even though she shines so bright and looks divine.
For looking at her beautiful gaze resurfaces old memories hidden in my deep mind.
Spectral memories I no longer wish to find.
(C)
Copyright John Duffy





