What The Poet Wrote

What the Poet Wrote (Birth over an open grave) A poet wrote: ”Mothers give birth over an open grave. I thought it was harsh, most children live long after their mothers die. A young man driving behind me was edgy wanted to overtake thought I was driving too slow. I kept as far to the right as I could, he saw his chance, but he was not quick enough, front collision. He wasn’t wearing seat belt, died on the bonnet of his car. So much blood, dark red and sweet, but his eyes were open and they saw beyond to a place I have never been. His mother, a widow, collapsed when the coffin was lowered into a an unfeeling ground, she had given birth over an open grave. I see a field lit by millions of candles in rows a man walks among them and ever so often snuffs out light with his thumb and index finger. But behind him new light appear, sometimes he turn go back and snuffs the new lights out, mothers who have given birth over an open grave. He is now heading for the part of the field where the candles have burnt out, only the wick flickers, quickly he snuffs them out, but misses some, of people who live too long, those who death has cruelly missed. There is no light on my terrace, a car passes by and plants casts shadows on the wall, they have no colours. I’m past caring; tomorrow will come whether I’m there or not, mother will never know if she gave birth to an open grave.