Lessons in life (Part 4 It’s the little things)


Your mum is upstairs, said my father, his voice breaking over the tide of words he couldn’t hold back.

Sunlight streams silent on pallor mortis,
 with a kiss, I quietly pass warmth onto you
 and hold my hair as it falls
damp on the grey of your cheek.
The difficult calls are being made,
 he can only chew the words
so I swallow them for him, hard as the red plastic phone.
I sound like a mourner in this monotone drone.
Curtains close and roast to ash
hands held out to be took and shook,
sympathetic smiles, wrinkles of the past.
Your music reminds me of Saturday nights.
Ham and piccalilli on buttered crusty bread,
saggy settees and late night TV,
those were the times we held each other
and I needed your comfort the most.
Foot falls wet on a mountain path,
dust drops soft to cobwebbed grass, I look for a sign
to find this spot again and I laugh
before I cry, as I do every time.

© savvi 2023
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