He must be late.

It’s Monday.

Give him a call

Rather unusual he’s not here at all

He’s always the first one in

There must be something wrong, they said

This simply isn’t him.

Ring his landline

Send someone along

He’s never late

There’s something going on.

But nothing’s going on at home

Everything is off

Then it’s all so clear

He is not here

Not with us anymore.

The door knocked in

After four bell rings

The floor holding his body

Pale blue and straight

We’re twelve hours too late, they say

No, twelve years, I realise

Now wise.

We’re way too late

We always wait

Too long

To invade

A Life

With warmth and care

Then dare

To say in one foul breath

It was a painless death.

The day she died she cooked a pot of food

Pumpkin

The meat was browned in sugar

Dark and sweet

The pumpkin soft and thick

Mushy chunks of orange in brown gravy

Shining with the fat she cooked it in

Delicious stew.

The day she died my mother brought her pot

And filled it to the brim with

Pumpkin stew

Her mum knew

Best how to make a hearty meal

And steal a heart with food.

The day she died five beggars fed

From that same pot

Of pumpkin stew on bread

Wrapped in waxed paper

And the warmth of her tireless smile.

The day she died she washed out her pot

Wiped clean with bread

She had begrudged herself

The last beggar at the door

More hungry than she was.

The pot washed

The kitchen cleaned

She cleaned herself for prayer

Then bent to pray…

And was found that way

The day my granny died.