A phantom whispered in my ears
sleep would not soothe my mind,
a forest of concerted fears
had left all sense behind.
The wind spelled dew rings in the air,
the river's bass assured,
my fingers held your lovely hair,
its colour now matured.
An apparition came and stayed,
its shadow dark and still,
I rose to walk but only swayed
against the window sill.
"What is it that you ask of me",
my voice was loud and strong,
"You need to climb a certain tree
and take to her a song.
It may, but worry not, consume
much time as you compose,
upon the stone wall of your tomb
she'd place a single rose."
I did not grasp the meaning then,
my hands were cold and free,
perhaps there was a touch of Zen
linked to that special tree.
Next day I sat, by candle light
with ink and feather there,
and reminisced about the night,
her fingers in my hair.
Compose, I urged my inner man,
the day will come at speed,
a V comes annually, to plan
and she will want to read.
I take few breaks throughout the day,
and papers fill the room,
but I have learned again to pray,
to ward off evil's gloom.
No project will receive as much
in effort and in time,
but what will be, for me as such.......
perhaps a lowly rhyme.
I shall, to make the odds behave,
go out and pick a rose,
it is too soon to grace the grave
your turn now, I suppose.