Chris Matthews.
Memory of a lost love.
He sat, motionless, a hard static stare.
Trapped now frozen, to a small rocking chair.
Looked out over garden, so wonderful, so wild,
Bringing back the memory of when she last smiled.
Trapped by the thoughts, steel cogs twist in his mind,
Revenge has consumed and made him so blind.
Winter blown leaves, yellow and brown, blur his vision,
Chill-Blaine memories turn to such derision.
Thoughts of auburn hair and emerald eyes,
Many nights spent, with love’s low muffled cries.
No children to share, for impotent man,
The bedtime rows, the tears that ran.
She left him she said “’cause all was not fine”,
For him it was, “just a matter of time”.
Knowing of the others, she’d seen for the night,
No doubt his heart was too broken to fight.
Love now gone, was such a temporal game,
Some amorous nights? So who was to blame?
Tears like rain for this solitary soul,
Like a resting actor, who has no role.
Although outside, was now breezy, quite warm,
Inside his heart bled, so tattered and torn.
Clinging with care now, to what he had left,
Pictures, happy times, memories would test.
Where could he go now? He could not complain,
Sat there anguished; was her victim, inane?
Why are some people so selfish with life?
They make a bad lover, husband or wife?
A flower calls back, seems to call out loud,
Peels back the folds of his self imposed shroud.
A glimmer of hope in this field of colour,
Reflects glints of light to a face full of pallor.
The child within him, runs out now quite free,
To the arms of a waiting, old oak tree.
So wise and loving, caring and strong,
Away the memory of all that is wrong.
Climb up higher, go in search of the light,
His garden a vision, so calm and so bright.
He holds hands with his child and goes on a walk,
Path of discovery, long shall they talk.
Where ever there is Black, so there is White;
As the end of the day, follows to night.
Keep hold his child; forever a team;
To be at one with life, now his dream.
©Chris Matthews.