Slow Motion
A gentle breeze whispered past their ears
11/28/01
and a soft smell of salt was misted throughout
a quiet sky, solemly overcast, settled overhead
and everything was slowly, reluctantly rocking
but the air was dreadfully thick
they mulled about the vessel
garbed in their modest best
murmuring, avoiding each other's eyes
moving as if weights held them back
all subtly choked by the heavy air
or by an unspoken circumstance
they were a melancholy crew
accented by a minor flute in andante
and then there were the flowers
seemingly thousands of them
lining the docks, climbing the riggings,
arranged in beautiful displays here and there
and one in the trembling grasp of a pale woman
the white rose shone like the moon
against an empty, motionless curtain of sky,
black folds of silk draped over her tired form
She looked out to sea with a sigh,
not daring to look back at the others
for fear of the stinging tears she knew would come
she closed her eyes, letting the slow wind
drag soft tendrils across her face,
a face so drawn and pale
She brought the rose to her lips
for one brief moment
before tossing it to the rolling waves
and watching it be pulled away
into the darkness of the coming night.
This mood was gathered from events following my grandfather's death--his wake, funeral, and burial. This story evolved from those experiences, and I incorporated the "flowers" because of the many flowers that were around my grandfather's coffin that day. However, the poem itself focuses on the widow, and it takes place on a ship at sea... so there is a large element of my own fiction here.