Was it you
who touched
your mother's shoulder
that night
as she wept?
(I was drugged up
(sleeping pill),
so slept.
She finds
Mondays
the worst,
the day you died,
than the rest.
Cuts her up,
brings her
to a low ebb.
Saturdays are mine,
the day it all seemed
to go wrong,
two days before
your death,
the incompetence,
the mistakes
seemingly made;
things not done.
Was it you?
we deem it so.
The gentlest
of touches,
as she shed
her tears,
turned and saw
I slept
as she wept.
Grief comes
in waves,
high rushes
of it, sweeping
all before it
towards
the shores
of hurt and pain,
comes again
and again.
Who to count
the leaves
of grief's tree?
Who to count
the stars
of doubt
and death
and regret?
Was it you?
We think it so.
Gives her
a sense of relief
from the bites
of gnawing grief.
IN MEMORIAM OLE. 1984-2014.