I cried the louder at birth
so loud that all the hollow deep
of Hell resounded...
but I was not orphan like Oliver Twist
in Pentonville, London.
Just brought into this world
sired by the sullen glare
of tropical sunsets.
I cry now -even louder-
at my mother's ascent
into the unknown as a skylark
from a garden of blue roses
by the sea.
I saw her soaring embracing the sun.
*
o moth!
night-rover of England
roaming from hedge to hedge
from sweetbriars to gooseberries
from gooseberries to the moonrise
from the moorise to finally alight
on the mirror reflecting
the most dulcet smile
of my late mother
o moth!
*
Dear mum, you already rest
in some melodious plot of beechen green
guarded by rain-soaked crows
and squirrels in Hampstead Heath.
Your ashes glowing as a constellation
of fresh stars or a new moon goddess.
Oftentimes the Constable's white horse
in a gallopade neighs your name.
Something in the aroma of your name
calls the scent of wild moors in its mind.
I smell the aroma grazing along
with the horse, now cantering in blue.
And the world outside stop mattering.
