Grey Poem by Tim Carlson

‘You’d never think I’d end up here,
At any point in my life, ’
Clutching now her walking stick,
A bent and broken wife.
‘I’ve lived a life of luxury,
Of travels far and wide,
Do I belong here? ’ she asks,
And as I spoke she cried.

My words were alive,
Yet she was dead.
Her memory lives on,
Of the day she wed and the day she found love,
In a box of foxglove and cedar,
Down by the river side.

Declaring to life,
There was no strife, nor hurt or pain or contempt,
Keeping herself, afloat on a shelf
Carved from the wood, well kempt,
She dreamt of you and your story,
And the war which took you away,
And swallowed you whole,
She may again see you one day.