Poetry

Like a dung beetle you were guarding
the tunnel, I will not let the ball roll away,

a grain of ache in my tooth.Why you had
to go, on cathartic release of mutual trust?

A stone in the heart, ice on the wings,
there will be a terrible crash today.

He died by his own hands, failing to reach
the ceiling of solid pain, trekking across

the memories in deep waters. The born depression
had the bride of moon without flesh, beyond the gaze.

A hand holds the sunlight reaching your eyes.
You may swim with fish in mid stream of death.


* On the death of Nicholas Hughes, son of Sylvia Plath in Alaska on 16th March 09.


Satish Verma