COFFIN IN THE HILLTOPS
Dear: Grandfather, in the hills you lay drifting further from the living day by day. Who will live on? Your legacy to show whomever it be, your fortune bestow. A great many riches, from land to gold, now to wither; like the master, so cold. Aunties and uncles, threats have begun screams do erupt from mothers to sons. “No, tis’ mine” They growl on all night your poor grandson scared by the fight. Poor little boy; too young to know what his grandfather is doing from the ground below a family feud over nothing but greed the curling vines of hate, like ire weeds.
Dear: Grandfather, the world seems a mix. Family, sneaking and playing dirty tricks since you left with no warning the era of hate be slowly dawning. Ask Cousin Maria I’m sure she’ll agree locked away and they threw out the key. How scared she must be alone in the ground nothing but dirt and debris all around. Hidden in the forest for the worms to take, betrayed by a sneaking, dirty snake. Family she is but by family she dies buried far away were howls of cries but the feud goes on, despite her gone. a cross on the hill for her memory to live on.
Dear: Grandfather, they all greed for wealth, not too good for a poor boy’s health. Aunty Donna no longer, his uncle’s lie gone with one stab, now more goodbyes A whole new funeral over nothing but money, betrayed by the one she used called “honey”. Now, again, the boy dressed in dreary black. Crying and wondering why she will never be back. She too, now lies quietly under the hill, In a brown wooden box, the lining befrilled. Under the hill, the peace does not waver. Finally no fights, the only dead favour. By your side, your first child does lay more to come as the time fades away.
Dear: Grandfather, how do you rest? In your eternal sleep, your soul is blessed. How calm it must be in a land of no worry no doubt or fear; euphoria a flurry, Not like here. A world of corruption, your soothing slumber with no interruption. Such a lucky man in your quiet wooden box, never to see the world of our fox. Such calm from death, your mind set free. No screams to hear no blood to see. Doesn’t it all seem much fitter than this hurtful world of stinging bitter? Life: a perfect fabrication. Take the ‘F’ and it becomes a simple prevarication.
Dear: Grandfather, again the bells ring and the howling sound of the grieving sing. Another gone to lie at your side, the ground above them set stratified however, this funeral, not a single but a triple. The people’s murderous tendencies ripple. Now with fewer, the fortune cuts, bigger, your fortune condemned to greedy gold diggers. They, do not care, for the worth of loved one’s proven, when the boy’s father, polished his guns. The poor lady he once called his wife stepped in his way, now away with her life. Your poor grandson, alone he will cry his family slowly wither away and die.
Dear: Grandfather, what a lovely garden. In its perfect presences all is pardoned. A charming aroma of serene purity and there sits the boy in his bubble of security. Seen by the others in the cool morning dew, the boy remains silently under the blue. Hair a mess and eyes a puffy red his cloudy tears held back by a thread. The boy remembers a time when all was well, with his mother in the garden but he is now in hell. Poor, poor soul be this little boy, in our dark world with no more joy. Alone he sits with no one to care, what has happened to him , dulls his flare.
Dear: Grandfather, the boy does cry when he is left alone to stare at the gleaming sky. In the lonely garden he sits as his loved ones fight and betray their wits. Nothing but anger; towards him, what did he do? His small body hurt by his father’s rue. Pain, pain, a bad haunting pain, he shows no one for it be a shame. What would they do if they found his skin? Turned black and his body brought to sin. Poor, poor boy, your grandson be but alone in garden, his mind set free. Happy feelings return after what feels like so long sent back to a time before everything went wrong.
Dear: Grandfather, your son is a sinful man. Shining bullets of silver, as his siblings ran. Most of your children killed by his greed, their bullet wounds burn, from the ground with need. Revenge at work, a conniving curse from the dead if your fortune he wants, the true treasure he must shed. The man turned crazy by the fuel of gold, his love for his son turned bitter and cold. The little boy, he must kill but on the inside he weeps strikes on the boy are memories he will keep. “Please no more!” is what the boy said a pure golden scream then from the stomach he bled. And as his innocent red blood, drops, another coffin does lay in the hilltops.
Samantha Smith is a first year law student at CDU. She loves academics; however, has always craved a more artistic nature. She loves to write and is an aspiring author and poet.
