A Cold Day In January

Last year my mother died.
I was not there; she died alone.
It was mid-winter when
we buried her. The roads were treacherous
that day, the coldest of the year.
Few people made it to the funeral,
the church was nearly empty.
My son and daughter each
read out a poem
she had written in her younger days.
The priest, who had not known her,
said the prayers. From there we went
by car, the tyres crunching on the ice,
to where the grave had been prepared
in the cemetery that waited
on the outskirts of the town.
The ground was frozen hard.
We stood and listened to the prayers
the priest intoned, tall and upright
there above the open grave while
all the time the icy wind blew
flurries of snow over the graves
and by the groves of evergreens,
So cold, so bleak, so utterly unforgettable
the scene, but what was strange:
I did not mind the cold,
that seeped into my heart and bones.
It seemed somehow appropriate.

by Pete Crowther

Comments (11)

I love this poem, it speaks to the heart. A truly sad time, expressed so well. Thankyou for sharing.------Melvina
How right, that the weather should fit the bleakness, the pain in your heart. I felt the aloneness, the hurt. I to have lost my mother, and she was my dearest and best friend, and tho' it has been a long time, this work freshened my pain, because it was 12 years ago this month that she left me. Thank you for helping me remember how much I miss her. Linda
You have a great talent for writing. Excellent poem. But I wonder if your religious views can reconcile with my friend Tom Prato? Regards Tan
sad, and the winter that seems to be your soul in those days, very beautiful analogy! a great piece of work! ~~Elya Thorn~~
Beautiful, particularly the last lines. And how wonderful that poetry has woven itself through the generations! Small note: I suspect you meant 'known' in line 11. Just me being picky, but a nice read regardless.
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