The Death Of Jean Sibelius

White sky.
Smooth water.
Grey pebbles crowd the shore.
I feel the sense of something more
but will not go where gone before.

A rotting log,
slimy with orange lichen
dips a finger to the lake.
An icy touch I shall not take.

My God says why,
as do my friends.
I live to die.
My days and years span out,
in greyness.
A nothing I command,
in this clean pine forest land.

White sky.
A black flat lake.
An icy road I will not take.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.