The sprinkle of stars across the sky was an inverse of the scatter of freckles across her nose, her shoulders; as the one constellation grew brighter by night, its echo, too, became more prominent, but in darkening the longer it was exposed to day, to the sun.
The stalks of wheat in the mid-August evening light were an imitation of the strands she kept loosely woven down her back; they whispered and whisked in the wind, dancing like the fair flyaways that framed her face.
The languid blooms of yellow trumpets taking their midday nap were like so many miniatures of her in that saffron sundress, flitting around in the summery warmth, teasing him with twists and turns.
The morning storm clouds, gathering heavy and angry in the damp grey sky, patterned those slate shaded irises of hers; the lightning flashes mirrored the blaze of her gaze, and the nimbus nebulosities spilling their tears replicated her own precipitation.
It’s been far too long since I’ve written or posted anything. Finally, after three in the morning on what is still Monday night for me, inspiration for a poem struck as I finished a particularly bloody and significant chapter of George R. R. Martin’s A Storm of Swords. This is the first draft; changes may come. But I must warn you, if you have any intention of reading the book series or watching HBO’s Game of Thrones, do not read this enormous spoiler of a poem. You will certainly regret it and probably hate me for your mistake. I guess you could say this is my interpretation of one of the novel’s particular events.
The Lady Catelyn
Pierced her heart like
Carved her hands, and
Drenched her face while
Engulfed her soul with
Memories of her sweet young boys
That were no longer,
Thoughts of her darling poor daughters
Who were lost to her,
Longing for her beloved
Who was naught but bones and dust,
Vision of her remaining son
Who lay punctured and leaking rust.
Each hurt was a wicked claw reaching and clutching,
Ripping her love asunder as
Fate leered at her mockingly, refusing
To grant even a single wolf permission to howl at the autumn moon,
Each fiber of the pack shredded and cast down
To drown in the flooded rivers
Of blood surging from her throat, choking off her screams
Sitting on his grandfather’s lap
Bouncing on one of his knees
The boy took off his baseball cap
As the man gave him a squeeze
The child begged for a story
The grandfather surely complied
A tale of his younger glory
The days of choosing a bride
Too soon the boy broke in
Inquiring about a snack
The old man reached into a tin
Then closed it with a clack
He gave the boy a stick of gum
Beemans was the brand
The boy asked where he got it from
But was silenced by the wave of a hand
“Chew this, but listen here,”
The grandfather told the child
“Your grandmother – she was quite dear
Especially when she smiled.”
He went on to describe how they first met
A tear brimming in his eye
“Grandfather, your face is wet.
Why is it you cry?”
The man paused to choose with care
Words to describe his spouse
And answered with a sharp intake of air
“She was my Minnie Mouse.”