The Empty Page
She kept up her daily diary
faithfully through the years,
like a religious practise,
whatever the weather
whatever was going on.
What was it all for?
the un-initiate may wonder.
Those mundane details, telling signs,
conditioned observations, implications
of unspoken stresses, worries, fears,
the unwritten hopes and pleasures
expressed through and read via
everyday happenings
and terse comments thereon.
Day on daylong, year-in and out,
the seasons recycled, recurring
whilst the writer grew grey and weary
and still kept going
- as if there was no such thing as ends.
The day came
when the hand-writing began to scrawl,
lose integrity, character, constancy.
Progressively gappy, blotched,
incoherent and falling apart.
Then less.
to a scribble...
...until the empty page.
That was the page, O beloveds
that spoke the most.