I'm here in your home where you died.
I cried on the leather sofa yesterday
where you expired.
Your incinerated bones are on the shelf
by the TV.
Of course, they're not - they can't be - looking at me.
They're solemnly heavy, like cement
but I've never held that.
Your body fat and sinews and eyeballs
and so much of you. Your ashes can't see me.
But should they ought to?
Is grief something I've shrugged off,
and been taught to eschew; the pain?
There are two sides up in the northern heather, here;
whispers savage their way into my
stuffed up ears. I am under duress to hear this
misplaced anger. Being mad at rain because you got yourself
soaked. An acorn resulted from a scorched oak.
The moors have two sides. Cold, bleak and murder-filled. Sunny
and bright and I see your smile in every
country mile of tarmac.
