Grief

This was a poem that seemed to jump into existence. What I write is not gloomy stuff, although I fully acknowledge and even appreciate the role of gloom in a life, so it's not too surprising a topic. I didn't write it for any particular occasion or for any particular relationship between people, it is quite generic. I decided to post it today mainly as in the UK it is Mother's Day and the sort of day that can highlight a loss. (My own mother is entirely well and full of news regarding loft insulation, and, of course, the vagaries of weather.)

This Beast

What is it, that I am being told?

You are here, I know you are.

This beast, my grief

At my heels anytime

Shifts weight, changes shape

I will not acknowledge it

Why should I acknowledge it:

I can carry on as usual, nothing

Can change, if we do not look

If we do not look or speak of it

Roll into intolerance

Roll, rage, and the more

It makes no difference: rage

Why is this story to be told?

It is wrong: too heavy, awkward

All this red eyed swollen exhaustion

The real story, isn't like this

I could write it different

I will, I will make it perfect

I should, I should have

Made it better, not perfect

But so much sweeter

Left too late: gone over

Memory in mould, in useless

Bloom, foul hot-breathed blooms

You are not here: the shape

Of you, a negative, a shadow

Cliché: you are not here, not here

In the dark room, sit

Holding memories, unlit

Until the light lifts

Memory, rolls into use

Can be held: a memory can be held

I remember: from darkness: the light lifts