Put the Kettle On, Mate

A poem about the quietest grief

This grief is a quiet visitor

Waiting for its turn to speak

Gently, holding up its hand as if to say

“Don't mind me'“

This grief comes in the dead of night

Not to wake, but to stir

And hold you a while

In contemplation

For all the trouble you caused when living

Your life without regard for consequence

For all your women and little women

Your answer was

To put the kettle on

No matter how deeply atrocious you had been

Tears and bloodshed still fresh on the counter

You’d say

“Shall I put the kettle on, Mate?”

When the kettle now clicks

I recall that when we said goodbye

Your one good eye glassed over

As I kissed you on the cheek

Your cancer like serpent coils around your neck

You nodded and shrugged

And you said

“That’s it then”

As if dying wasn’t something you had considered

This grief it comes without words

It comes and goes more often than you did

In your heartbreaking, politest manner

Telling me to put the kettle on

“Don't mind me. Just put the kettle on, Mate.”

August 2016