Written after the loss of someone who could have been called 'my French father'... someone who was very kind and helpful to a foreigner in his village. Left behind, his widow remains my 'French Mother'.


After The Wake



She will remember him, won’t she?

When she opens up the cupboard door

To set the place for tea.

One less setting, one empty chair.

Twisting excruciating in her belly,

Cutting across her throat…

He will not be there.


She will remember him, for sure…

In the quiet when she cannot sleep –

In that enormous bed.

The pillow unrumpled and clean.

No point in anticipating his soft touch.

No breathing beside her…

Where he would have been.


She will remember him, I know…

When the grass is growing much too long –

In the garden, alone –

Beside the smart new sandstone wall.

One more job accumulating without him…

When she will give anything

To have him… that’s all.


She will remember him, and cry…

When we have all gone after the day

He was gently lowered

Back to the rich and ginger grime,

And the house now reverberates spoken tears

As our departing nervous laughter

Gives memory... some time.


But most of all… she will remember him… won’t she?






© Griffonner 2021




Poetry by Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2021-10-27 at 00:13

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