The Guardian

Key to Midnight, our very first post.

Quick intro, Jane is the poet (the real talent behind it all). Me, I’m Alan, the photographer.

We’ll be posting Poetry and Pictures together on this Blog.

Please feel free to comment (good or bad), doesn’t matter because you see, it’s all relative. As Clapso said, There is no absolute truth.

Only what we feel to be true.

Thanks!

Jane & Alan

March 17th, 1944

Dear my dear,

Gray is your color, my dear…

The eternal rest…

 

Ever since you left my dear, death became poetic.

As I stood on the ground you rest, death became a mystique.

 

Are you lonely, are you missing, with the same people there?

Is it nasty, is it bleak, with the soil, the worms accompany?

 

Ay, is that what you say, I hear, from, whence will you awake?

From the mud, from the dirt, from the feet above, up here the grass is green!

 

He with the robes that kisses, the soft ground below.

Caress, a brush with death forever, but never dead it seems.

 

He, the silent surveyor stands, head sculpted in prayer.

With mourning eyes that speaks to you, my dear, with gaze so hypnotic.

Sleep, he says, sleep and lie, never before such peace exists.

Rest your gaze, my child, take heed, God you have will always be.

 

Ground from whence produced a seed, a trunk so majestic.

Is the thinning canopy for you, my dear, for the sun’s too bright it seems.

Fear not, ‘fraid not, my shadow, my shelter, is there for you to keep.

 

Here I stand, cast in stone, arms slack from the years.

Head bowed to face you, my dear, to keep you down for company.

Mon ami, mon enfant, we are all but same.

You prop the ground I rest on, I keep the ground appease.

 

Through the screen I tried to squint, to catch a glimpse of you.

Ever since you went under me, my dear, time became eternity.

 

One day, I know my arms will waste, to the ground from the magpies’ chewing.

Maybe my head the next, I think, for my neck’s growing tired always.

But wouldn’t it be well, my friend, for you said you liked my eyes.

You can have them then, to keep, but let not the worms eat you,

…before my magpies did.

 

Love,

Hawkins.