My name, Lorna Festa, means forlorn festival. Lonely Party. Forsaken Fiesta. …I finally confronted it, in this deeply sorrowful poem. Don’t cry.
“The Forsaken Forest” 11 September 2015
bends in the wind. The festival
is finished, the festivities are over,
the townfolk have tucked in.
How the blessed tree stands alone!
When before, all were summoned to her
shade. She is but a doorway, so she’s told,
an opening for others to walk through.
But who remains in the threshold?
In the hollow of trees as they shake
in the wind, which does not let up.
And then, once the fire fades down
And the parkin is eaten up–Is
there any reason to stick around?
Not a formula for disappointment, but a
calling to confiders near, here. And far.
The fire died in Greer, near the track
and field. In Columbia, it faded before
Across the sea, in Sheffield, bruv
The fire was fifth of November-
reminiscent. It glowed in its own
glory. “Better to burn out than to
fade away.” Still, that one burned
Away. And here she stands, a beacon.
The ales been drunk, the wanderers
stumble…And somewhere in these hills
A light is going out.