Babbling Brookes (11 May 1954 / Macclesfield)
Loss is not that first stab,
Nor the numbness that follows.
Loss is not the nights after,
Nor tears shed heavily into pillows.
Loss is coming home full of news,
Only to find an empty house.
Forgetful, to set the table for two,
Turn to speak to vacant air.
Loss is to laugh alone.
Comments about this poem (Loss by Babbling Brookes )
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
William Ernest Henley
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings