THE DIVINE AURORA, in memory of Lilian



August 12th is celebrated in my village with Mass and a candlelit procession in honour of the Divine Aurora. It is a special day which starts early, when we are woken  at dawn by the sound of the village band serenading the women named Aurora, Spanish for dawn. My four children are all musicians who have played in the band and I have always got up early to listen to the Aurora. The band and the village youngsters will have not slept, going straight from the Fiesta partying to get their instruments and play, followed by breakfast in the street from the bakers before managing a few hours sleep. The waltz is played again at the end of the evening procession when the  village gather to hear the music and honour the Divine Aurora. It is always emotional, people remembering those not present but became more so for our family in 2010 when my mother died on the evening of the Aurora. I was by her side and my children were playing far away. Every year when the Aurora plays we remember Lilian.  



THE DIVINE AURORA



As she sighed her last  breath a
welcome breeze fanned the Plaza,
rippling the festooning flags
like a forest of butterflies’ wings.
The band serenade the Divine Aurora,
circling her golden image
shouldered by eight strong men,
bathed in the flickering homage
of a thousand candles.

The grandchildren feel her whisper,
the shiver of foreboding
as their instruments sing,
clarinet, flute, trumpet, sax
raised in harmony, the waltz 
rising on Spanish night air,
their flying fingers bearing
Claddagh rings, her gift in
memory of unknown Irish kin.

Leaving the applause behind,
squeezing through the crowd
parading in fiesta frippery,
gone before the taper lit 
the firecrackers strung like
nodding beads across the square.
Home to the sky blue house, 
guarded by curled iron balconies,
shutters closed like eyes hiding grief.

As booms smite with cordite 
they heard the word from afar,
her peaceful death retold.  
Huddled close, as one,
a sofa medley of uniform blue
the children shared their pain. 
Lilian was gone, her spirit flown,
to return each year on the
August wind as the Aurora plays.






© 2018 Jacqueline Knight.  All rights reserved. 


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