Departed by Grahame Davies
They touch our lives much less than we suppose,
the dead. The ones who swore they'd never leave,
but did so. Those who slipped away and those
we said we'd miss, but didn't really grieve.
The ones who, with their patience or their pain,
left us resolved we'd live a different way;
to never lie, or slander, or complain;
although we did so, almost the next day.
The great ones, even, known or by report,
whose spirits wrote in stars across the sky;
they count for little, or the truths they taught;
they bring us no new wisdom when they die.
We don't admit it, even when it's clear,
the way the least beloved human face
is more to us than those no longer here,
the ones we said no others could replace.
It's not the tragic, but the trivial things
that bury sadness deeper every day;
not how creation sighs, but how it sings
though that itself is tragic, in a way.
The daily sunlight staring through the glass.
The portrait fading in the painted frame.
The wind that goes, ungrieving, through the grass.
The loved one's lonely, lichen-covered name.
Thanks to The Guardian Poem Of The Week
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