Fingers entwined resting against an alabaster chin
eyes, delicately framed by copper tone lashes, lost
yet attentive to thoughts deep within her mind
A faint hue of soft apricot accents cheeks while
a gentle kiss of rose emphasises pensive lips.

The gentle breeze plays with loose tresses that
have fallen from an otherwise perfect upsweep
A slight shiver to her shoulders giving life to the
stillness of the figure that quietly contemplates
musing soberly on her living years.

Seventy eight summers she has lived with a passion
evident in the whispery lines appearing around
maturing eyes alive with lust and hunger for a
life yet unlived, unknown, unchartered yet
laid out before her in an untold plan.

Seventy eight winters bringing coldness to her core
devouring the light replacing instead a muted
haze of grey surrounding her heart, crushing
every last breath, every last trace of hope that
she keeps deep within her heart.

Her eyes resplendent, skin translucent, cheeks
glowing reflecting the last rays of a setting sun
sinking slowly into a fiery pool leaving behind a
ghostly trace of a suggestion that it ever shone
with a splendour to match her passion.

Darkness envelopes her, warmth seeping from the
furnace that has fuelled her spirit, motivated her
lust to live life with an intensity and eagerness that
matched the fervour and intensity of her love that
she bestowed to those she adored.

Slowly the solitaire of light dulled from her eyes, the
burnished glow of her cheeks paling into a subdued
grey hue, while the lines around her lips deepen, each
one reminiscent of love, passion, anger, desperation
all that she has lived ardently.

With each fading breath her thoughts dull, become ever
distant, recollection evading leaving her confused, panic
replacing calm, her breathing labours, quickens with a
shallow intensity. Eyes try to define faces, familiarity
but bleakness is all she finds.

A stillness fills the room as a gentle hand mops her brow
a hand felt, sensed yet unseen. A hand of comfort, love
beckoning for her to leave behind her mortal vessel.
A smile softens her worn face, knowing, adoring as she takes
the hand and fades into eternity.

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Tara Davison

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Photographer & Poet - for fun. Mother to three - for real. Owned by a 10 year old 'puppy' boxer - yes owned ! Self employed book-keeper and also studying for my diploma in Garden Design. Love walking, cooking, reading, listening to music (classical mainly), watching Morse, Lewis and Poirot. Participant in life - it's not a spectator sport !
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A passionate and fulfilling life led by a wonderful being called mother…Amazing piece to read:)



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