I Hate Cottage Pie

I Hate Cottage Pie! I hate cottage pie. It sits under lights gelatinous and unappealing, Its smell pervades my brain and hits my throat already thickened by grief. The duplicitous potato, pretending to offer the ill and injured a culinary delight, only to disappoint. I take in the cacophony of industry. The Navy, blue, green, burgundy, white, gloved and pinneyed, The doctors in their droves; suitable attire, bare below the elbow, with stethoscopes hanging like trophies or jewellry, an essential accessory. We pass through the scene, a family on a journey we do not wish to take, the side room a haven of peace from the noise. A tranquility and spirit is present, an overwhelming flood of love for the man we give witness too, as he takes his last. This strong Welsh man, with soft heart and hard face, the once powerful reserved presence, now reduced. Quick witted turn of phrase, with only the chosen permitted to enter this sacrosanct of family we have become, and somehow, have to continue to be. This fight as mighty as any seen, “rage against the dying of the light”, A change this day as we pray for peace, Dignity for the dignified, Love for the beloved, Pride for the man who held us all. The finality comes with strength and faith as unexpected farewell, a loving embrace and clearing of eyes allows for a glimpse into a peaceful heart and rested body, The depth of pain foreshadowing the love felt and will continue to be, with peaks and troughs we bare together.