Mother

he looks upward, this derelict
dreaming of the good times,
    of home
    of childhood
    of family
he looks up, blackness a frame
embracing the grey regolithic landscape
 
his breath grows shallow, this cast-away
looking upward, longing to again experience
    clear skies
    endless ocean horizons
    trees and grass, and all things green
    mountains piercing the sky
it fills his vision through the faceplate
(this focus of his longing)
 
the chill strengthens as the haze eases in
from all sides of his vision as he looks up
from his place against the rock

 
she is center in his sight as he
awaits eternity, this vision, this blue-
white Mother watching over him,
over them all.  Over
everyone. 
 


 

Ω

WC Roberts  WC Roberts's website lives in a mobile home up on Bixby Hill, on land that was once the county dump. The only window looks out on a ragged scarecrow standing in a field of straw and dressed in his own discarded clothes. WC dreams of the desert, of finally getting his first television set, and of ravens. Above all, he writes.

Other works by WC Roberts