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A collection of random thoughts from my jotter.

Image, by Helmut Liebelt, courtesy of Altphotos

Inklings

Dusk come in,
against the snow
the coal is black.

Memories fettered,
with winter
In my heart.

Age gathers in -
the destination
we’re travelling to.

Across the Fens
thunder sounds,
the sense of loss.

When lots are thrown,
the fall of grace
seems small.

like the sun,
death cannot be
looked at directly.

A shallow life,
too soon lost
by its leaving.

The dying moment,
easily confused
with a stopped clock.

Life, then death,
the soft blink
of an eyelid

And our dreams
unrevealed
until forgotten.

Where shall they be,
the living now dead,
if not in memory?

And who’s to say
once we’ve gone away,
what will stay?

We are left with
enough love with
which to grieve.

Lives lived then dead,
cannot count so much,
as lives now living.

And when all’s said,
we’ll have a coffin
for our bed.

So, poets do as
poets must, until
time converts all to dust.

© D G Moody 2023

Poetry by D G Moody