Grief summons with heft.
In its wake we gather what pieces are left.
Grief resides in the warp and weft
Of seconds, minutes, hours;
Its hand is deft
At stitching itself to the fabric of our day, until the two are cleft.
Forever are we seemingly bereft
Of our precious moments, sensations and scents,
For they are now held by the tenuous threads of grief.
Come to grief,
And let it swathe and bathe you.
May it provide some relief, however brief.
Come to grief.
Before I was born, I had an uncle who died.
He was the youngest of the three; the golden child.
The family was broken; their tears locked dark inside.
The houses were steeped in unspoken words as we grandchildren grew.
Moments of affection were few.
I felt unheard, unknown and unseen.
Their eyes were glossed with a sheen
Of grief for one who had been,
But did no longer abide, amongst the living.
No pictures, no words, no stories, or misgivings.
Only tears uncried.
the unstable creative 