The Most Silent of Nights

If pain could be tuned into music
I would lay a guitar under her
children’s sleeping heads
and strum a symphony
that their Mother is not dead.
.
An undertaker digs her words
Into empty library shelves
and from my wine-stained lips
we share our last ever kiss,
before she is turned to ash.

***

The moon’s perfect vowel
washed in sleep at the morning’s edge,
nestles tenderly in our final chapter.

This seed of light
that grew here and gave being
in remote corners of the universe
to a suggestion of love,

Darling, I must whisper this…

We’ll take our hearts outside
leave these lives behind
and watch the stars go out.