by Byron Beynon
I slept late that Sunday
morning my father arrived
with news worse than the hangover.
He drove me to a familiar house
where my aunt witnessed
my silence in a world
where flowers came with cards
and neighbours with faded voices
whispered their sorrow.
It was the first time
I'd kept company with death.
A few days later
at the grave's sharp edge,
feeling the tight-lipped
earth falling from my fingers
I understood her hushed pain,
her blue eyes of grief.
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