Wednesday, October 24, 2012

For Paul

         1.7.62 – 31.10.85

Grief does not go away;
it rumbles underground,
from one day to the next.
It's nearly 27 years,
but like a scarcely healed ulcer,
one slightest abrasion
will cause it to re-open
and spill out blood and exudate.

No one knows what to do.
If you meet me, look closely:
I've been forced to erect a façade
which I can shelter behind.
I am not what I seem.

1 comment:

  1. It's a long time since I looked at your blog. I remember reading your poem dated Jan 1 2011 about Christchurch being built on a maze of fault lines. I think I made a comment, but it doesn't seem to be there now.

    I like this poem, even though I don't know who Paul was or why he died so young.

    I lost my wife of 40 years almost two years ago. I agree that the grief does not go away. I think of my grief as having burrowed inside me, where it will always remain. And yes, an "abrasion" can easily expose it.

    Thank you for sharing your thoughts and feelings.