It's Still Life

 
Those Holes

I don’t know about you, but I’m filled
with quiet holes. Contemplative holes.
Every time a friend dies, or family,
it’s another hole. Grief is some sort
of unspoken language, and some people
just expect you to fill those holes up.

A friend died the other day.
A man of faith. Love. A poet,
deep down to his aching bones.
I’ve known him for years,
but I never met him.

Doesn’t mean that I don’t know him though.
He struck another hole in me. I’m a sieve.

Whenever a friend dies, I think of Dad.
Every time, I return to him standing,
galvanised to that broad ocean view —
the grey sea and the stone-cold wind.
Weather made him feel alive, he said.
It just made me feel cold. And wet.

It wasn’t until he died
that I inherited his love
of weather. Now I stand
galvanised to that view —
Grey sea. Stone-cold wind.

Mum spilled Dad’s ashes out like milk powder
into a river. He floated off. Toward the sea.

 
for napowrimo Day 24: Elegy

It’s National Poetry Writing Month, which explains the surge in activity. I’m following three different sites generating daily prompts. Writers’ Digest Poetic Asides, the National Poetry Writing Month website (NaPoWriMo) and my old friend, Walt, over at Gnomes. All of these pieces are drafts.