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| Image Source: Trudie Shannon |
Grief - Trudie Shannon
At dusk, with a blackbirds song and drizzle.
On the table, the empty whiskey bottle.
Beside it the uncorked wine, blood red.
The man, a shuffling automaton cooks tasteless food,
The processed wheat and the morsels of dead flesh
Are as grey as his features, as grey as his life.
All words are forbidden in the brittle atmosphere
He is as heavy as a ton of feathers,
As the lead that wraps itself around his windows,
His silence curdles thoughts in process
Twists love into glass fragments.
He sits while the pot boils, a head of steam singing.
In the barren stillness
The dogs pad in, coated in dew and constancy
Their panting breath like a gasp of wind escaped.
He sits and reaches out his grey hand, a reluctant desire
Encapsulating him in spite of himself.
His friend takes it in affirming warmth and promise
And the man bows his head and weeps.
Trudie Shannon
