by cricketjeff on August 23, 2009. © Jeff Green, All rights reserved
A special gift her Grandmother had said.
The soft, cold gold inspired her and she knew the words to say,
With pen in hand they flowed out from her head.
Each word she wrote was from her heart and every line was true;
The rich blue ink rolled from the nib as fresh as morning dew.
The summer dance where first they kissed was set down on a page,
The way he held her turned to gentle rhyme.
The words she wrote that evening seemed to say she’d come of age
And she would dance with him for all of time.
A waltz of words cascaded from the love that she now knew,
Her poetry was sweeter than an April morning’s dew.
The day he knelt before her with a ring that shone like fire
Became an English sonnet overnight.
Her Grandma’s pen recorded every nuance of desire,
Those verses seemed to fill her mind with light.
The gift to paint your lifetime is accorded to so few,
And fewer still record it with the gleam of mountain dew.
Their wedding day was rain-swept, but the sun was in her heart,
And not a cloud obscured her poetry.
The pen again transcribed it and it took an active part;
It changed her words to perfect harmony.
Tradition says a bride must wear a single thing that’s blue,
A sapphire broach from Grandma’s box that spoke of falling dew.
The midwife held the baby while she sat and wrote in bed,
The day their first born daughter came to stay.
Another page of magic told of all that would be said,
And all the times the two of them would play.
The rolled gold nib just seemed to know the love that would ensue
And helped her turn her feelings into meadows kissed with dew.
Just two more years before their son, the image of his dad,
Was set down in her round and loving hand.
The pen responded sweetly and she knew that it was glad,
Their family was now completely manned.
She sighed in satisfaction and her writing gave a clue,
She saw the world as hedgerows that were dressed in crystal dew.
The dreadful day her husband died the pen was laid aside,
No longer felt the need to sit and write.
She bound her leather notebooks and she waited for the tide
That told her that her life was nearing night.
Each morning now was empty and the rain beat a tattoo,
She couldn’t see another day as blessed with shining dew.
Her daughter’s daughter visited and brought a smiling man;
Her Grandma’s pen was writing in her mind.
A special gift was handed from a very loving Nan,
Another generation had to find
The words to tell the future that each day was bright and new
And love can make each moment seem a rose that’s crowned with dew.
A form I love to write in, the rhyme scheme is from a Venus and Adonis stanza but the meter, alternating iambic heptameter/pentameter followed by iambic heptameter couplets comes from who knows where. If you know please tell me