Opposing Void

At our weekly call,
I notice his voice
is not so strong as the last…
when after a day of seven triumphant runs,
cruised from top to base and
again with strength in knees
and fresh air in lungs,
a memory of his youth relived.
In his soul he felt, I am doing well!

This week, conversation is not proud.
A year-old sorrow diminishes spirit,
quiets voice, subdues joy.
In youthful spite I face sorrow as an enemy.
In surrendered age, he has little need to fight.

It threatens him less,
he knows his age,
healthy now but not so long
till he lay beside her under the trees.
I have no plot to my name.
I’ve many years ahead,
I cannot spend them all dreaming of
and crying for the dead.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...