Thestrals

The more I think about it, the more impressed I am by Rowling's invention of thestrals. It's so easy to mine them for rich religous messages: Death, while grim and foreboding, is not the real enemy. There's more to this life than what we can see. We're not in this alone, even when it seems like we are. In this poem, I imagine Harry taking comfort from these creatures in the immediate aftermath of Sirius's death.

Thestrals
All the forest now is silent,
And the hush is reverential
As I ponder the protector who was slain
Till I hear a gentle rustle
As you edge into the clearing,
Wraithlike comforters who dull my searing pain.

Sirius's end was violent,
And I wish some providential
Force allowed me to again commune with him,
But I feel your sinewed muscle,
And the power there is cheering.
I recall that love endures though life goes dim.

Death has made its mark on me, too,
And no doubt I'll soon be drinking
From the bitter cup of tragedy once more,
So I contemplate tomorrow
In the company of creatures
Who reflect my grief for those who've gone before.

And I wish I couldn't see you,
But because I can, I'm thinking
There's serenity and solace to be found
In the aftermath of sorrow.
Haunting beauty mutes your features
As you nuzzle me and softly paw the ground.

It's cathartic to remember;
Blocking memories is foolish,
For it's on their firm foundation that we stand.
Please forgive me if I've tarried
Here too long; it seems disorder's
Distant with your withers brushing past my hand.

When I come back in September,
I'll no longer find you ghoulish,
Secret soothers of my aching emptiness.
Now I've seen how we're all carried
By invisible supporters.
That is just a part of growing up, I guess.