Tag Archives: Grief

Friday poem: Time does not bring relief; you all have lied

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year’s bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go,—so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, “There is no memory of him here!”
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

 

by Edna St. Vincent Millay (February 22, 1892 – October 19, 1950)

He Is Gone

A sad story from Glenys that has moved me greatly this morning:

lifecameos

She rang me from her home
at the far end of the country.

“He is not here,” she said.

“Is he in the hospice ?” I asked.

“They take me to see him
at the hospice every day.”

She said no  more
did not answer me
hung up.

I wrote to her instead.

_______________________

She rang me from her home
at the far end of the country.

“He is …. he is …. ” she said.

“I am so sorry  he is gone,”
I replied.

I persuaded her to tell me
who stayed with her
who cared for her.

The small private funeral
he requested spared her
much distress.

They are helping her
supporting her at home.

But he is gone.

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Watercolour time

Watercolour time

Wet brush blurs, lets colours bleed into the next
Time is a wet brush, bleeding memories, blurring grief
Until the pain of loss is subdued
Not single primary colour
But smoothed, mixed, melted
Not quite there, but never lost
Still in the picture but not the focus
Only the truly obsessed, vengeful, bereft
Or those whose culture encourages vendetta
Can support impasto grief over the years
Most of us accept the damp brush of time
As a comfort
Of sorts

Copyright © 2017  Kim Whysall-Hammond

“Time works like a damp brush on water color. The sharp edges blur, the ache goes out of it, the colors melt together”  –John Steinbeck, East of Eden.