The Unburied

Looming with the stench of inevitability
Her tremours follow the fading light
As suns once high choose set.

The groom awaits in tranquility
As she dances her last delight
Where suns from light repent

Her March respects all filial bonds
For none complains that his days don’t fade;
From spring into wintry let.

Death, her lips do kiss all bones,
Her face all eyes caress
And her hips all thrones subject.

© Denis Adide 2010

On Death

It was quite sudden, one moment I was admiring the reddening leaves, then next the stench had overpowered my senses. My nose, regrettably, led my eyes and this was the outcome: a rotting fox. Trust me to want to share that with you.

Here’s the thought though (no pun intended here; apologies to Ted Hughes): in the rotting fox I recognized my own mortality. There was something gruesome, inescapable, and unforgiving about death. No one will ever complain about it having passed him by. Like the fox, whose corpse was cradled by autumn leaves, none of us will escape the tide; so what’s the point in fearing it. Our mortality gives our time, and our life, value. The ticks are each a solid blessing, seasoned with the scents of spring flowers, the drizzles of summer’s rain, the red autumn carpet and the heaven of blissfull snow. The bitter-sweet tastes, the rising and the ebbs, all form part of the wealth that is the human experience.

In seeing the fox, I became more alive. Took a fresh breath (once I’d moved away from carcass) and cycled on: enjoying every moment.

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