Grief
It was intriguing, this cold dead ash.
Your grief, stained and white in a blue china bowl.
A handful of coarse sunlight spilled onto tears,
You lift your eyes, like a retreating creature troubled
By sawrming cries and phantom faces.
Somewhere in the distance, our door lay open.
We stop at the top of the stairs, on the draughty landing
I try to remember your name,
Your voice, your smile, coming home.
But remember nothing more than you standing
Watching me, quite unconsciously.
I pause and feel you begin to despair.
Then I turn and ask you to forgive me, but
You cannot hear me anymore.
Copyright © Sarah Widenbar | Year Posted 2005
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