Giles Watson's poetry and prose
They that Mourn
They That Mourn
Time does not heal them. There is no regeneration
of the amputated limb; they go on with the blank
companionship of an empty space. It follows them,
blinks out, reappears in old accustomed places,
sits itself in that particular chair, warms hands
at the cold fireplace it lit and kindled every day
in life, blindly flips the pages of its favourite
magazines, leaves spoons in teacups as it always did,
folds back the pages of its favourite book, disturbs
the dust in the attic where it planed wood and puffed
its pipe, leaves the smell of it lingering on stairs.
Time does not heal; it wears thin, until its gossamer
is so stretched that the veil of life and death turns
translucent, and even the embittered start to see angels.
Poem by Giles Watson, 2013.
They that Mourn
They That Mourn
Time does not heal them. There is no regeneration
of the amputated limb; they go on with the blank
companionship of an empty space. It follows them,
blinks out, reappears in old accustomed places,
sits itself in that particular chair, warms hands
at the cold fireplace it lit and kindled every day
in life, blindly flips the pages of its favourite
magazines, leaves spoons in teacups as it always did,
folds back the pages of its favourite book, disturbs
the dust in the attic where it planed wood and puffed
its pipe, leaves the smell of it lingering on stairs.
Time does not heal; it wears thin, until its gossamer
is so stretched that the veil of life and death turns
translucent, and even the embittered start to see angels.
Poem by Giles Watson, 2013.