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Scrounging Solace
Scrounging solace from scraps of remembered talk,
I wander about the bleak January house
from room to eyeless room..
my mind plucking at fragments;
images that would hold it
back from the final zero plunge;
knowing the absurdity of my misery
hoping you will be back-
if but in the small infinities of time
before the light of a new day.
Night is a receding promise.
I search in these vacant hours,
when time is dead,
for small familiar distractions
in printed word or printed page
of the well loved antics of our time together
and find only a keener melancholy-
knowing they grieve in your absence too
without tongue to put to it.
Scrounging broken scraps of solace
from room to heartless room,
a disgruntled disinherited ghost,
I observe the jaded grass below my window
dry and bitter as hope gone sour;
A lone sparrow talking to itself on a dead branch-
Then darkness... and there will come
the swish and glide of someone new;
their steps and voice in the kitchen:
All frantic with a thankful welcome
and the more sedate greetings... of me:
feline - curling myself 'round their insteps.
I will be tired but I will smile and warmly greet them
and bravely ask them how they spent their day-
...not being brave,
they will tell me.
We'll laugh and have a few quick drinks
while hollow I sit.. next to them-
tortured by a dream of you, never coming back.
M.O.H.
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