Make no more of it than it is.
small benefit nothing, this way comes
At first strike not felt plays heart
and intertwined you welcome grief
whose time makes of no herald sung.
At her age grandma came to stay
house too small pain spread like breath.
So days out to the workhouse made
only for sun and autumn’s harvest
all we in Victorian garden came.
Of course it’s repurpose to care
was perfunctory, almost callous
and maintenance not restoration
became the order of the day
for the parentally bereft hiding.
Voices echo with high ceilings
and now knowing forest medicine
as I do little kept mum’s tiny hands
from grasping at past pain once more
we couldn’t help at passing through.
Disease at rest is best in these’
a nurse’s passionate disinterest.
Weep not for the decaying night
melt fear to duty, light shine bright
be bold with mother-instinct done.
Why this grieving for your mum
we already killed our daughters, sons.
In my terminal bed not so long ago
( recovered now and rightly so)
I thought of this and pass it on –
Meeting both our futures early
now, our stories worth
merely song
as us, the singers, carry long.
Until as this and after you
your daughter’s time shall come.
Peter Handley. 2020
Read and buy Peter’s published poetry
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