A bruised reed

This is written about my older sister, Jean.

*

In the strongest metal there’s a point that’s weak

when fatigue or constant grinding tension

slowly drains the soul out of the metal

dissipating whatever strength is left.

 *

She was strong, could face up to situations almost overpowering

but underneath, inside, the daily battles took their toll.

I, her brother, close enough to advise her

could not prevent his hold over her;

she later married this head and feet of clay.

 *

Oh, it was fine at first, displaying supposed married love;

alas his strength was in his arm, not in his head, and

as a brute drunkenly abused, a bruised reed did make her;

until she finally left, that old so sad and familiar story.

 *

I went to see him, angry yet quite in fear of him one day,

he towering above me listened as I talked him down to size.

I threatened him and even as I trembled I took strength,

for he was near weeping as I warned him not to offend again.

 *

Later, travelling with her on a late night bus,

I sensed some vital spark had been submerged or lost,

still tried to comfort, reassure, suggesting

the future still held promise, that not all was lost.

 *

I wondered then, how such men could answer to that name,

to use their strength to subjugate a weaker frame;

from liquid daily his false courage drew,

his mates joined in and so the monster grew.

 *

Her hair is white now, her step less firm,

her heart still beats, and though oft the memory stirs …

around her feet, her offspring brighten up her day,

all was not lost to so-called manhood on that wedding day.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1997

(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)