Sad,
sad for her,
That she walks like a sleeper
Hands before her face
Between the worlds.
She
does not wake
For all my weeping.
Her
feet tread dew wet grass
Without disturbance.
The emerald lawn unmarked
Despite her passing.
Mist
hangs among the hawthorns
Creeping into the hollows of the field.
Around her the light is uncertain
And she is thinly dressed.
What
is in her face, in her unseeing eyes?
Cry rage upon her. Wake her to her pain.
She is lost, lost between,
And her dream drawn feet are searching for the path.
And
I, I also am searching
Desperate in my fantasies.
I am haunted by her absence.
But the door is always behind me,
Every way I turn she is lost to me.
Freda
Davis 2009 |
