they were playing Benjamin Britten

LEAF-MURMUR

In the peace & quiet of her little room

with cactus & late poinsettia

on the sill, she’s growing quieter

herself, just one step from the tomb.

They were playing Benjamin Britten

on the radio, his Moonlight

from Sea Interludes.  Slow

breathing, like tides come in;

the pulse of one high cresting wave;

flute-shrieks of gulls.

Her strong deep swells…

receding now.  She curls concave

into her wheelchair, brave head bowed

(the pride of life, brought low).

Her potter’s wheel, slow

spinning, rounds her own clay into cloud

as in the Garden of Gesthemane

all-powerful God

knelt to his own rough mud

fleshing star-fire to flinty harmony.

The wheel of life, how she runs down

at last!  This shadow of herself

feigns sleep, feigns prayer.  Only

the fleeting elfin smile remains her own.

Stalin, Akhmatova… terror & grace,

beauty & ugliness meet

in the grave.  A life’s complete

that hears leaf-murmur through a face.

3.5.20

oak-leaf plate by Mary R. Gould