[Inspired by Ólafur Arnalds’ “Dalur”, ft. Brasstríó Mosfellsdals:]
Force of fingertip a tidal motion,
pencil rolling back and forth;
chin on table, arm nearby,
eyes fixated on lead wave’s rhythm.
Minutes tick by, hair falls over skin,
over face – a grey veil – but her eyes
remain on the pencil: symbol, gift
from a child a child no more.
And so she sits, listens to clock
sounding out Time’s passage and
breathes. Simple respiration
marks her steps towards the grave.
The phone, hanging on the wall, might
scream and break the wait, break the wave
of the pencil, taunting her with memories,
but afterwards it will sleep, silence
will embrace her. His voice,
not his voice, will linger in her ear,
then fade to
sound of infant laughter; sound of the boy
who used to
hold his mother’s hand without a thought.
[Copyright © N R Nolan 2016]