Her timeless words say it all,
Dorothy’s love for her only child.
Picked out in stone echoing her call,
the hard borne loss of her ‘Boy’.
Dancing the ‘empty’ fuel gauge serenade
over the Cornish coastline flew Boy,
eyes raw and nerves cruelly frayed;
this young man, the source of Dorothy’s joy.
In a blinding white-red scarlet flash
a flare breaks the darkness on the beach,
a momentary flaming tide-washed slash
and the relentless sea fills the breach.
Gasping for breath at the loss of her Boy,
smashed and broken on a Cornish beach.
His pointless death at Dorothy’s senses cloy,
far from home, so distant and out-of-reach.
What could Dorothy now hope for or control?
Only her love, her pride and her passion!
And in this Dorothy would find her role;
she would mark Boy’s grave in fine-fashion.
Demonstrating a loss that must be endured.
A pain that could not be cured and never faded.
Controlling an image placed before the world
of her burning pride when the tears cascaded.
Of a woman brave, cheerful,
always fearful
of the time she’d be caught out;
and then the damn breaks.
Then it all comes tumbling out;
all because of a miss-placed word,
a noise, a picture a shout,
and that’s what Boy’s grave is all about.