Friday, 12 August 2016

A week already-almost:

Tomorrow it is
next weekend already
and last weekend
now has all these days in-between;
each day turned opaque, hidden -
Grief has a craftsman’s fingers;
has time to kill, time to turn grit
into the darkest pearl
and a tree into searing coal.

Grief rests in all my spaces,
like that moment
between the inhale and the exhale
or that spot between seeing
one thing and then the next - scenes 
you would have painted, now will never exist.

Grief tells me time has passed
while, being the Trickster, tricks me
into thinking last weekend has yet to pass.

Last weekend Kev, we said goodbye,
overhead the sun shone, beside me, my wife
cried...Jo wept too as he played his guitar,
each pluck a rending of my heart’s soured strings,
and you, hidden in that plain pine box,
could only have been resting – surely…

It was only last weekend when I 
carried you to the car—
the rope not rough enough to take away
the weight of cost—
and let loose a paper airplane
to transport your spirit
into the sunshine and light.

It was only last weekend
and yet
it seems not a moment has passed
that the years lie ahead
without you.