The wild thunder rolls,
the wind gusts all over the place.
Texting a sister witch, I raise
protection over our houses and cars
and hope it will be enough.
It’s worked countless times before,
but I never take it for granted.
(That’s not the same as not trusting.)
And all the time, in another
part of my mind, I’m tallying up
the list of my new dead this year –
as the year draws to an end. Four
old friends. Two sister goddesses
who spread their light and danced
in the circle; two men I met in prison,
poets, who gave the rest of their lives,
in freedom, to supporting people in need.
Love has many faces, many forms.
I’m living long, so far. It happens
that some people go. I always want
that they stay forever. But they have
their own roads, their own journeys.
Sometimes they know they’ll go
and so we can say our goodbyes.
Sometimes they visit afterwards,
or in the very moment of death. All
loving messages are gratefully received.
Morning comes. The thunder is over.
Great harm in some places, but not just here
– although it was dramatic, frightening.
Meanwhile, I’m still absorbing the news
another friend messaged, just as the storm
began. He hadn't suspected. His oncologist
tells him it won’t be long. There are some
events for which I can’t raise protection.
Yet I’m glad he reached out and told me.
I am so blessed in my friendships! Each
unique and special. This one’s always been
easy and sweet. Younger, I thought he’d be
left mourning me, some years from now,
which I’d selfishly have preferred. The poems,
the artworks, enjoyed, are not what I dread
to be without. That’s the quiet understanding,
quietly relied on. My turn now, to give that back.
My old friend (and fellow-poet) Rob messaged me on Christmas Day to tell me he had just been diagnosed with 'very aggressive cancers of lung and liver ... all spreading super fast. Operating is not possible. I am in very good hands. It probably won't be very long, my oncologist says.'
And it wasn't long. I have just learned he died at 8.30 tonight (New Year's Day) and that he was surrounded with love.
We exchanged a few messages on Christmas Day and Boxing Day, while he was still up to it. I told him: 'As a psychic medium I do know beyond any doubt that death is not the end, and hope our souls may connect in friendship again in some future.' In answer he sent me a smiley face, a pair of praying or 'namaste' hands, a sunflower, and a heart; he told me that, having got the news so very recently, he was busy processing everything.
'I bet!' I said (still doing that too, though from a rather better position).
Later I asked him, 'Can you cope with a poem?' and sent this one, which I had just written, telling him it was 'Not terribly morbid, and I'd better say it now while I have the chance.' He replied, 'A delightful poem. Comforting love. Thank you, dearest Rosemary.'A
He said he would reach out when and if he could. I told him, 'If ever there was a time to put your own needs first, this is it!'
He responded with a shiny big red heart emoji. And that was our goodbye. I'm grateful to him that we had one.
Poetic form: nonce (in this case a pattern of lines per verse).
.'
I
