Writings and Witterings

Death Beckons

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First generation,
Death smiling beckons,
His arms stretch open,
His pointed fingers indicate,
‘Your turn soon’,
She knows
It is time.

She recalls a babe
Of six weeks,
In the arms of death.
Third generation,
The wrong way around;
She thought she would
Never recover,
But she did.

Death beckons.
Her arms stretch open,
She is tired and frail,
Vitality deceased,
Crooked finger states
‘Your turn now’.

Her time is gone,
She seeks quietude,
Life is passing,
Quivering, grasping, gasping,
Final breaths
No more.

Polly Robinson © 2012


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