Version 3

Death is practical.
A To Do List of grief
to be lived through
yet no sense of
a job well done.
 
No room for
beauty
in endless forms
that now record
your life.

Your death.
 
Your essence
in bullet points.
Like a times table
I trot out details
surprised when
my voice catches.
 
I did not want
this normality.
A hum drum nod
to your passing
that makes me choke
on every intrusion
of memory.
 
And where is my haunting?
My soul screams
to feel an echo
of your mothering.



Version 2

Death is practical.
A To Do List of grief
to be lived through
yet no sense of
a job well done.
 
No room for
beauty
in endless forms
that now record
your life.

Your death.
 
Your essence
in bullet points.
Like a times table
I trot out details
surprised when
my voice catches.
 
I did not want
this normality.
A hum drum nod
to your passing
that makes me choke
on every intrusion
of memory.
 
And where is my haunting?
My soul screams
to feel an echo
of your mothering.
But you have gone

And I fill forms.







Death is practical.
A To Do List of grief
to be suffered
yet no sense of
a job well done.
 
No room for
beauty
in the endless forms
that now record
your life.

Your death.
 
Your essence
in bullet points.
Like a times table
I rhyme off details
surprised when
my voice catches.
 
I did not want
this normality.
A hum drum nod
to your passing
that makes me choke
on every intrusion
of memory.
 
And where is my haunting?
My soul screams
for an echo
of your mothering.
But you have gone.
And I fill forms.