Saints and Martyrs

...
inspiration can strike at the oddest times and places. I recently wrote a poem in between making dinner. It started with the thought of someone asking a question and ended up... well, you read it and see. :-)

Saints and Martyrs

“Where were you, when the world ended,
and everything was suspended,
and the angels came?
Did they call your name?”

He held my hand and smiled,
like a child who has seen
the other side of magic.
Nothing tragic in this sharing,
his bearing was that of a man
transformed.

His grip was firm; an old man’s hand,
grained by life and turned on the wheel,
as we turned on the wheel
in spinning snow; his eyes the axis and centre
to a world I could not enter. His eyes
surprised me into surrender and I stood
and looked beyond what was safe to see.
Him and me spinning time
down.

down… the softest feathers, the lightest snow.
down… the spiral sane men fear and madmen know.

Snow, like angel wings’, enfolded us
in silence. I held his hand, he held my gaze
and I, amazed at my own composure,
unsure how to leave yet knowing I could not stay…
longing to stay, I walked away.

The sadness in my eyes, so close to tears,
were fears not for his sanity, but mine.
The likes of me condemned to be too grounded
in this well founded world to stay.
I walked away well floundered, I grieved
that meeting; that all too fleeting glimpse of
Paradise in his eyes.

copyright Michelle Frost, December 2011
...