A time to be grateful for what was,
To say what went unsaid
And hold close those you love
That’s what a funeral is for
She’s already found peace in the
Place reserved for her
Free of every earthly hardship
An unmarked emptiness in need of signage.
Where are the big red letter signs Left Home
In the estate agents’ catalogues?
One embrace, one cooked dinner, one pair of apron strings, all to let.
One flown nest, not the same, semi-detached, open for lease.
Grandpa lived amidst the flowers
Of the rose garden he kept with care
A legacy of thorns and petals
That makes us feel like he’s still there
It’s not until recently
that I have come to understand
quite how much of a
thankless task
being a parent can be.
On a Sunday morning we met, flowers in hands, ready.
His eyes wide open, sweet smile.
Oh, those early stages.
From kisses under the streetlights
To long night talks, “us” was all we needed.
I used to be able
To smell a birthday from mile
I’d hunt down the love-wrapped gifts
Trying to guess what was in the pile
Try to fall in love, I once heard a film star say,
But only with the kind of love that’s peculiar in a way.
Spend time searching high and low, next to no time to delay,
For true love never lingers; ready to lead your heart astray.
‘I’m getting married in the morning’,
He shouted the night before the big day.
‘I’m getting married in the morning’,
She screamed the night before her father gave her away.
French exits at the party
Catching your eye and your smile across the room
French kisses at the bus stop
With my hands in your pockets and your fingers in my hair
