Tags
bashfulbadgersblog, bereavement, death of my father, lockdown, NaPoWriMo, poem, poem in a white ribbed vest
no kind casseroles
on the doorstep
after the death.
people literally
keep their distance
in the aftermath,
lockdown a cloak
obscuring and
excusing all.
practical help
is absent;
and the bereaved
abandoned to
their own devices,
edging tentatively
around the chasm
of their loss.
condolences pour,
pure lip service,
from those with one eye,
metaphorically,
on the door.
the left behind
are disorientated,
descending a staircase
in the dark,
never sure when
they’ve reached bottom,
readying themselves always
for the odd disquiet
of another step,
or the sudden shock
of rearrival
on level ground.
poem in a white ribbed vest 