GHOST IN AN EMPTY CHAIR
Sometimes it is just a flap of wings in a lonely meadow,
or a child’s shoes and socks left by a pond
Sometimes it is the intensity of darkness
or the emptiness in the kitchen at harvest
Maybe the laughter ascending from the street below
or the ‘stepford wives’ promenading past with their pugs;
the elation of cheering crowds at a football match,
the vicar’s wife fraternising with the village elite…
Whatever triggers it, you instantly know,
that lonely ghost in the empty chair is you,
as though you are marked out with a blood-red bindi….
folk turn away, rejecting the discomfort of your grief
The world tumbles to wrong conclusions
and your sealed lips shout ‘I am still here!’
You cannot fight the inevitability of it;
you ask yourself why grief is such taboo….
Sometimes all it takes is the wind kissing your hair,
the cyclist turning to smile as he pedals past,
moonlight catching the svelte stem of your wine glass,
or an unexpected call from a complete stranger…..
Just small things, singular, unremarkable, yet they have
the power to transform your world…and you are grateful