Last days, these days
roll like a slow-moving stone
across a stony terrain –
many bumps, inclines, declines
and turns.
Last days, restless then at peace
then restless again
as limitations close in so only
the essentials remain.
Last days are these days
soaked with this blazing wound, continuing.
These days there are no more plans
but to live through the days letting in
the undefiled grace that rises like vapour at dusk
through the balcony-door crack,
through her smile which she still manages occasionally,
keeping pace with the clawing hunger for relief
and the undercurrent smells of sickness.
These days are the last days
I can love you,
and how I love you, my mother –
your bright sailboat stalled
in the maw of this menacing wave
surging.
Copyright © 2024 by Allison Grayhurst
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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:
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Read whole poem:
https://allisongrayhurst.com/my-mothers-sky/
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