Direction.

It has been very difficult to write recently for a number of reasons, so I’m going to write in lyrical form, as it seems to be easier.

 

In my plaza flora stands, but does not thrive –

Flowers breathe out their colour.

I am most aware of absence

Which swells, in disparity to my appeal,

Like a tree which grows but pales in colour,

And which cannot parade foliage –

Insipid and stark beside its counterparts.

They remain unassailable.

 

The syllables of the words I cannot speak

Choke and clog and strangle.

 

And still, the closet stands, full of all the garments.

 

I wish again to give myself up; to surrender and feel silence –

To be able to muffle and dull the sounds;

I wish to be cleansed pure.

I try to elude the scratching and plucking –

I know I must to subsist.

But it is hard.

 

Yesterday it was 8 months since Freddie was born, and soon it will be the fifth month anniversary of when he should have been born.  Tomorrow Sam and I will attend a remembrance service at the hospital.

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