After the flowers, the visitors come.

An exhausting flow of sympathy and tea

Or worse; ‘It happened to me too’.

Dear God in whom I don’t believe

Spare me!

Haven’t I suffered enough?

 

I long for the real world

Beyond these walls

Where birds sing, live and die.

Where the grass, newly wet

Springs, pert with life and rustles

with frogs and mice.

All life, even slugs.

 

Yes even slugs.

They live, they breathe.

I need to be where life teems

Sings, rustles, slimes

And dies.

It’s natural, yes?

I’ll find my comfort there.

In that world.

After the visitors have gone.

 

By Fiona Lochhead    Sept 2011

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