If I should describe my grief as being
A handbag that bumps and swings at my hip,
Would you consider my thoughts ungracious?
Would you think I am simply not seeing
The harsh magnitude of your not being
When all about me I feel the tide rip?
This familiar bag does not leave my grip;
There is no escape; there is no fleeing.
I savour the memories when wanted.
I’m able to take them out one by one
Then as time passes I put them all back.
This handbag that feels as heavy as lead
Will gather grey dust, one day, in the sun.
My pathway will then be on a new track
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