after all the grief
has been wept — what remains is
an empty vessel

Music. Money. Relationships. These were the themes which I could have used in order to make a poem this morning out of my dreams last night. But this poem came instead. I’ve no idea where from. Maybe because a colleague confessed to me yesterday that she had managed to lose £450 cash. Was she looking to me for comfort? Is this poem my way of offering her the comfort I was unable to offer her yesterday? This would make sense. I woke thinking about a girl I used to know in the seventies. I thought to myself ‘I loved her’, which was a complete surprise to me, forty years after the event. Maybe that kind of love is safe enough to be thought of in relation to the colleague at work yesterday. There are so many different kinds of love. Love is such a scary word.


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