Old Harold (Scriptic's Prompt Exchange III)

Old Harold used to live
in a great big moldy house
with his only faithful friend:
the dusty, grey field mouse.

Years ago he did have a wife
just a few years younger
but their life was torn apart
by poverty and hunger.

Sylvia – that was her name -
at the age of thirty three
coughed and coughed, till coughed no more.
Now she’s under the ash tree.

Quietness and lonely nights
now filled Old Harold’s life
for he never got to fulfill the dream
of his poor, deceased wife.

All that Sylvia wanted from life
was a family of four:
a lovely girl and a lovely boy
that she could always adore.

But Harold waited for a time,
a time much more forgiving,
while dreams of Children in Sylvia’s mind
would never see the Living.

The lonely man that Harold was
suddenly felt absurd -
as if the sounds of unlived past
he suddenly would have heard.

He thought “It must have been the wine
I made and sipped tonight.”
then slipped outside for some fresh air
and turned on the porch light.

Funny that. There hadn’t been
any children standing there
the last time he’d looked outside
there’d been none of them, nowhere.

Suddenly he felt the pain
he’d held in tight for years
and realised he’d never stop
if he let outside the tears.

And thus old Harold grabbed their hands,
their ghostly little fingers,
because, my friend, the old regret
never dies: forever lingers.

 

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For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, Jester Queen at http://jesterqueen.com gave me this prompt: Funny that. There hadn’t been any children standing there the last time he’d looked.
I gave Cheney at http://writerewriteread.com this prompt: Write a morbid fairytale!

I feel like such a loser because I always write a poem when I can’t think of anything else :P I did have fun writing this, though, even if the structure isn’t perfect.

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