A brief but poignant look at bereavement, that rings very true; I remember how my mother’s fortitude after the death of my father finally broke down when she opened the wardrobe on his old brown jacket smelling of tobacco.
The usual subject
One grows used to the loss itself;
it is the details catch, and scourge:
the extra tea-cup on the shelf;
the kitchen table, grown too large.
Not in sorrow for wasted days
of love unspoken,
but by trivia such as these
the heart is broken