Working with the Cruel Web of Fate
There is no failure if you did your best in tough circumstances
In the end, you must accept
there’s only so much
the heart can take —
pain rolls in like sea foam
from those you love —
& gathers in an unseen ventricle
for its final assault —
in the post, on the phone
here it comes, again & again.
The message of hurt —
how I failed— the annual
Father’s Day vacuum in the mail
(the gift that keeps on giving)
& I recall all those bank holidays alone
while they celebrated and laughed.
We are blind to the heart for
we barely notice barbs we write —
sins of omission, the waspish word
to express matters of such great import —
to get things off our chest, set things right.
Somewhere, a line of bones stretches across
a mountain plateau, a knife mark
here & there yet with no clear break
for the shattered family to clean
its love-wounds & begin again.
We continue our Ice Age through the rising heat.
And yes, in the end, I’ll leave
armed only with cruel words.
Copyright Simon Heathcote
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