Lady of the Threshold
With the hopes of an eon
watching over that crossroad
that lady sitting on her threshold,
had begun to appear like an old relic.
If anyone asked her age
the townsfolk counted it in generations.
The body like ancient ruins
seemed hollow and bereft of life.
Thirst and hunger were nothing
more than mere words,
devoid of their meanings,
not felt since long.
Yet life still breathes on, survives
sometimes fed by some samaritan,
thirst slaked now and then by some sympathiser.
She accepted what she received
with a mute resigned acknowledgement,
but never did she seek nor ask for anything.
People new to the neighbourhood,
seeing her derelict state, Â often
mistook her for a beggar.
She was not.
As if was carved into it
like some forlorn artist’s interpretation of
years of sedimenting melancholy,
she merged as one with that threshold of
weathered, wrinkled, gnarled oak;
Silent in her unwavering vigil of the crossroad.
Hunger, thirst, pain, age, time
all, forgot their purpose around her.
Whoever passed by her,
would involuntarily quieten down,
perhaps touched deep within
by that cloud of silence. It wasn’t eerie but
one of fathomless loneliness,
one of an unending timeless wait.
The elders remembered the day
her son took a bus from that crossroad
to seek his proverbial fortune cityside.
There were letters every week which
the postman would read out to her.
Before long, the weeks turned to fortnights,
fortnights into months, months into years
and now those years into a few ages-
no letter, no news nor him.
Her misty cataracted eyes,
long dry of any tears
still wouldn’t give up their watch
lest they miss the return of that bus
to that crossroad.
Because, hope still wished
for those eyes to brim over again,
for those eyelids to finally rest,
for the body to breathe a sigh of closure,
and for that crossroad to be forever relieved
of that threshold’s timeless vigil.
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Comments
excellent poem heartrendering linda
Shukriya so much for your constant generosity and encouragement Linda! Humbled. Â Sincerely appreciated.
The eye and the pen are what make a poet. The eye to see that which others sweep past and the pen to preserve in words what was observed. You rarely write in any particular form and yet your innately sharp ear for prosody and the very taste of words; and the indelible images they create: make you one the true poets pottering around on this site.
This is an exquisitely detailed portrait of a woman (all but forgotten by the world) into the depths of her melancholy soul; but there's no false attempt at a social crusade or cloying plea for sympathy: you simply present us with an unflinching look at a fellow human being.
Remarkable.
J ;)
I can never ever thank you enough for your words of such generous encouragement and insights Jason, not to mention your innate ability of reading what I truly wished to convey almost every single time. I am deeply humbled and grateful for your kindness. Shukriya so very much!