Snapshot - Week 3
This is for my grandmother; my personal saviour. All I have left are snapshots and even they are few. These were our best times together, summers at the trailer, where I had her all to myself for two months out of the year. Rest in Peace Mormor, I love you.
Mormor
Warm summer nights,
campfires burned bright,
the sounds of Lake Ahmic
echoing beneath the Canadian
pines.
Feeble sand castles mourn
half-broken where hours past
Kings and Queens ruled their
lands.
Marshmallows impaled on
stolen branches, laughter
and song sucked back past
licking lips and sticky
fingers.
The old boat sits lonely,
as its captains yawn goodbye
to the day, and force one
more charred weiner into
their little stuffed
bellies.
Tomorrow, just another of
the endless days, little
fires made with stolen
matches, jukeboxes, grape
ice-cream and lessons in
unconditional love.
A little grey dog lapping
salt off the wounds, and
hugs that really should've
lasted forever.
Raspberries are sweet and
leeches don't like salt
are the things never to
be forgotten, even more
than first kisses.
Snakes and frogs and two-
month friendships,
thirteen fish on a string.
The hum of the boat motors
meant a block covered in
blood where the knives cut
smiles into little faces
and skeletons could swim.
Pieces of a dozen hearts
still live there,
frozen like snapshots.
Past the grave her kindness
echoes in the voices of
that place.
Mormor
Warm summer nights,
campfires burned bright,
the sounds of Lake Ahmic
echoing beneath the Canadian
pines.
Feeble sand castles mourn
half-broken where hours past
Kings and Queens ruled their
lands.
Marshmallows impaled on
stolen branches, laughter
and song sucked back past
licking lips and sticky
fingers.
The old boat sits lonely,
as its captains yawn goodbye
to the day, and force one
more charred weiner into
their little stuffed
bellies.
Tomorrow, just another of
the endless days, little
fires made with stolen
matches, jukeboxes, grape
ice-cream and lessons in
unconditional love.
A little grey dog lapping
salt off the wounds, and
hugs that really should've
lasted forever.
Raspberries are sweet and
leeches don't like salt
are the things never to
be forgotten, even more
than first kisses.
Snakes and frogs and two-
month friendships,
thirteen fish on a string.
The hum of the boat motors
meant a block covered in
blood where the knives cut
smiles into little faces
and skeletons could swim.
Pieces of a dozen hearts
still live there,
frozen like snapshots.
Past the grave her kindness
echoes in the voices of
that place.