Read Poem: wet, by Johnny Francis Wolf

Funny how
they call them wakes
when clearly those whose lives
we hail
are very much
(at least) asleep.
Hardly, though, with him.
—–

Were nights he paced the path
between,
from yonder
toward the riverbank
…a nervous lope,
slow and nimble, loose and swift..
then bounding
shadows mad at moonlight,
rounding back to me.
—–

Umbrella open
overhead.
Perhaps afraid
the drops would melt the
mist that bore him
float
…or weigh him down,
a puddled mass of
mud and shoe and ulster
coat.
Maybe fearing drips were blessed.
Hallowed rain to
scar his skin
if flesh and
bone were still
a means by which
he held his soul within.
—–

Only once he tried
the door
…light and friendly,
easy taps like
someone late for lunch..
contrite and shy and
soft of fist.
—–

Peering out the tiny hole,
I saw but tree and hill.. the fog..
concealing all the rest.
And jumped when felt
the wood press in
as someone willed the
knob to turn
…swinging slow at their behest.
—–

Slammed it shut and
locked the bolt
and angry
banged the oaken frame.
As sooner than my hand pulled ‘way,
pain from wrist
to elbow climbed
…kin to ache of spading grave.
Whilst knelling bells from
nearby church,
tolling,
cursed the
blighted earth..
Stratum
shook beneath it when
it very nearly
buried us and maybe him
alive, again.
—–

Feeling, then, the zephyr wafting,
all my windows open wide
when whisked a whip of wind through sill.
Curtains weighed like
leaden wool,
heavy with the rain
..hung still.
A voice upon me, sweet the whisper,
“Evening John,
‘tis lonely there..
—–

“Pack thee light for never wet
…of parched ablaze with pyre dry.
Away with me as living yet.
“Same for you… as woke was I.”
—–

About poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film.
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