More than one grief

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I collect my griefs like medals,
wear them bravely and with madness,
bear their regular unclasping,
bear the blood they draw.

Autumn has finally come.
It tears at the plum tree,
strews leaves across the ground.
Soon rain will come and beat them into compost.

Small birds ruffle their feathers
and pull their heads down into their coats.
Me too. My shoulders are rounded
from all these autumns.

There is an old man in what is left of a country town
making a wreath for Anzac Day.
Alone, he will carry it to the memorial
wearing the medals of his grief.

9 thoughts on “More than one grief

  1. Love the mirror quality of the images here, B. The rain beating the leaves into compost, then the rounded shoulders of the speaker, and the medals of the first and last stanzas.
    Very well crafted.
    Great to see your words again my dear.

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