Sorry

There must be moments
when you forget he’s gone.
When you think, he'll be ready
for a cup of tea and a biscuit by now,
or you realise you haven’t seen him
for a while…

Ah, you think to yourself,
to yourself alone,
he’ll be pottering in the potting shed
he’ll be coming up the path
about to open the door…

I would knock on your door
but all I have for you
are these few poor words,
words that let you know
I'm thinking about you

but my words are inadequate
and might,
if you are at rest
in a bubble of respite
from your grief and trouble,
be what, today,
would burst your bubble.

Sorry.


Art by my friend Bernard Barnes.