Two Dawns

Dawn is the name of both of my grandmothers.

One is still shining the other, her sun has set.

Sometimes I see their faces at both times of day, 

 Dawn and dusk, when the clouds turn orange.

I see them watching over, checking all is well,

hear them whisper - dear, it won't be there, for long. 

And they are beautiful, shining, as a dawn often is.

Stories not yet created, we are but they are women of the sea. 

One a telephonist in a shipping company, a Navy wife, an instant flame, 

- a story of a trifle planted on the head of a complaining husband. 

And the other, a fishmongerer by moonlight, a mother of five by day. 

- a story of mistakes, a stillborn heart and the strength to love again.

 Rooted though flowing, the Dawns, complete though not fixed. 

What is that divine connection between sacrifice, warmth and light?   

They have it, they are neighbours to love and they look toward us,

as we point our fingers towards the stars, mouthing only 'I want it, I want.'

 

 

I woke up one morning to see them rising over the ocean.

They arrived on time as expected, bright and cutting through fear.

 They warmed my skin, wiped my forehead, stroked my neck, set me alight

 And I was given no choice but to burn with them, across the horizon.