Finger follows raindrop
Dripping down the wood.
A place that’s lived in better times,
He’d leave there if he could.
The cat his only playmate,
Skinny, with knotted fur.
He sighs, and gently fondles,
It brings memories of her.
A lump of cheese for dinner,
Cat’s food a better choice;
Angry thoughts that twist him up –
Where is that other voice?
Is it only evening,
Or the middle of the night?
Did he eat his breakfast –
When will it be all right?
A bag of coal in corner,
And dead fire lies in grate.
When will it all be over;
It’s already much too late!
His thoughts go back a lifetime,
To when he had it all;
She was then beside him;
Where now, he can’t recall….
He coughs, frail body shaking,
And looks out through the glass.
Again a look at yesterday,
When things were meant to last.
Where flowers were in borders
Now weeds are standing tall.
Funny how they flourish
When human bodies fall!
The garden was a blessing,
With no need for memory lane.
He’ll close his eyes, and open them
When roses bloom again!
It seems that writing about grief with real empathy has brought about its own respite. Realising the contrast between the lives of plants and humans results in something to look towards. Sometimes I start a poem knowing the ending, but even then it may change as I write.