Death and poetry

I wrote this poem last year, as part of the one word challenge on Writer's Talkback, which was inspired by real events, the kind that happen all too often when we mix alcohol and driving, and the ignorant way that we often think we can get away with the occasional misdemeanour. Death has no obligation to young or old; he takes without prejudice or compunction, but more often than not it's our own fault that he comes knocking.

Literature draws him as a dark caped interloper carrying a scythe to harvest souls.  I decided to keep to tradition and let the Grim Reaper keep his scythe for the title of the poem.


Death and the Scythe

When the darkness came,
I felt utterly alone,
Except for the moon;
His quicksilver smile,
Guided me to the scene.

The dark scar,
In the meadow,
That’s how I knew,
A black tide was coming,
To smother me, too.

Wheat gently swayed,
Unsullied by fear,
The wrecked car
Was silent; the breeze,
I could hear.

A gentle hum,
Of life letting go,
A last sigh into the night;
I was too late to save you,
Too late to know.

You were still warm,
But I grew cold,
I held you for a time,
As shadows retreated,
And stars hung low.

The tide was out,
Never coming back,
The silence crowded,
Despite the moon glow,
My life turned black.

A drunken night out, son,
You had nowhere to hide,
You baited the darkness,
He came for you...
Death and the Scythe.