Tumour

I was called to her bedside; her carer was there
They took an age turning her while I waited outside
We talked over her huddled form where
Her head lay on the pillows, all shaved and scarred
One movement of lips, no smile
Only half-open eyes that saw or not
I made the sign of the cross on her head
And bent low as to pray
My voice failed me and a single tear trickled down
Words of comfort seemed way out-of-place
Her family were coming but what good would that do
The god damned tumour had the last word

Father loss

A friend just lost his father
In troubled, way off Zim
It’s a hell of a thing
For a man to lose his father

He continues to do his duty
No loss will slow him down
It’s a hell of a thing
For a man to lose a father

Soon he will journey north
To say his too late farewell
It’s a hell of a thing
For a man to lose his father

Death, the great imponderable
Arrives, whether welcome or unwelcome
It’s a hell of a thing
For a man to lose a father

Remembrance Day

Remember the glorious dead
Who in many wars have perished
Remember the local heroes
Who books of great suffering have read

Remember the global dead
Who in gigantic floods have perished
Remember the unsung heroes
Who quietly died in bed

Remember the family dead
Who loved you long before they perished
Remember the private heroes
Who lived inside your head

Anniversary of a friend

We long to know that you are happy and safe
We long to be assured that all is not in vain
We long to know that we can pick up where we left off
We long to fill the vacuum of emptiness
We long to be assured that things will be the same
We long to know that all will be well

Barbara 2012:10:04

Attachments

It was a very contemporary memorial service; no coffin, no organ, no hymns and no message. All the music was recorded; there were two songs which the mourners were supposed to sing and a eclectic assortment of pop songs. The service climaxed with a slide show depicting the deceased’s life. A huge bowl of flowers and two large photographs stood on a long table in the communion area. Alongside the table stood a “tailor’s bust”, adorned with the deceased’s favourite jacket…

The son, two daughters and a brother paid tribute. The out pouring of emotion was extreme, to say the least, it was as if a surging river had burst its banks! Not one gave up, all four ploughed on through the mists of near hysteria. They came across as emotional wrecks, totally destroyed by this cruel stroke of fate. He was truly well-loved, maybe even worshipped! Interestingly, the wife sat very still and said not a word.

To similar minds it was no doubt a moving exercise in the expression of genuine grief but those of a different disposition could be forgiven for seeing it as far too public a spectacle. Some things are done best in private! The weeping and beating of the breast on “the street corner” does not necessarily indicate sincerity
However, the event did highlight the value of good parenting, good befriending and good charity. He will be remembered!

Maybe we need to honour, respect and value our attachments, our friends and loved ones, more while we are still together…

Church Yard

She entered the green space  crossed with neat grey stones, followed the perimeter for a while and then headed purposefully up an “aisle” towards a stone with a vase of yellow roses alongside.
She deftly brushed the autumn leaves from off the stone then stood motionless, almost to attention, looking lovingly down at the stone.

What did she see? What pictures moved slowly across her mind’s screen? Who was she remembering? How long was it? After a long while, she turned around and walked slowly to a conveniently placed wooden bench. She sank onto it, supported her head with her hand, and gazed into the distance…Where was she in those private minutes?
She did not appear to be crying. Was she praying? One thing seemed clear, she was powerfully alone…