For A Daughter Poem by June Webster

She's gone, but neither of us
can say it aloud or even softly.

You sipping your fill of wine,
feigning interest in a TV repeat

Me with head bent over book
trying to read about hobbits,

staring at shapes floating
and quivering over the page.

but continuing to not read
the tightly gripped volume,

scared that if I let go, I'll crumble
and shatter our cut-glass silence

II

Today's chockfull of words,
not those left unsaid yesterday,

ones not used with her in mind
Wood or cardboard, light oak

or black ash, painted in white
but red was her favourite colour.

No hymns, her favourite music,
one hour crammed with her story,

about who she was, is, always.
All that love we had, have, buried

not with her but inside ourselves
as we try to gather our threads…

III

Tonight, we're back together, alone,
you with wine and TV, me with book.