Death is easy for there is nothing to do while living is hard, for you live right up to the moment you cease to live.

Everyone has a story and sometimes fragments of these stories reach us like one did today. The following is a follow on from the post Reg At Sea. We often forget that although we grieve, we are not always the only ones.

The Departing

Crayons for Grandad
as beautiful as the first rainbow who caressed the sky
the weight of the starburst colours,
avid from a delicate hand
waters cries from an old man's eyes
as the last grains of sand
fall
to
cease
and leave him behind.

I write about my father, I write about my mother and in simple terms they are a little like Ying and Yang, opposites of each other and each has an important lesson; one good, one bad but they are still both of me since both made me both psychically and mentally.

In recent times she features less and less in my expressions. The following is inspired by both my own and my sisters attitude to our mother, in particular the past and point of time we now find ourselves.

The Broken Face

She slipped like a glass,
cracked, failed to smash into chunky sharp needles

Instead she sat in a stale cupboard draw,
filed away like records of the dead.

Time prised her jaw to an old crows beak
toothless she scraped, more and more

Until their hands scarred as wise old oak,
Two children bought her demise on the rubbish tip.