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Saddest Day

On the saddest day, the sun still made an effort,
drew back the blinds, sent dust motes dancing.
There was a chorus, set far over the hills
as a tide meandered up the beach leaving
froth remains as on an old sailors tankard.

On the saddest day, there was me and you
achingly staring across an empty void
of recriminations and dried rust stains.
Lips with lines and blue veins eeking, leaking
from the tears of centuries, trying to smile.

On the saddest day, you and I were merged
soaring upwards in to a funnel of despair.
On the saddest day, the leaves still turned
to gold and red and in the distance a tree fell
and a robin still perched on the old chair.

I found a long lost bandana, wound around
and the saddest day became unleashed
as children wished on alter ego sighs.
We picked mushrooms in the dawn,
shorn shorts and falling waves of hair
collecting dew like whores with diamonds.

On the saddest day, the world was still here
and everything was heartrendingly poorer
yet richer in the knowledge of knowing
those dainty steps are walking in other halls
where the dust motes sing and the early
morning chorus, gently kisses us awake.

Poetry by Elle