Helen Pletts is remembering her grandfather

In the morning
 
 
In the morning,
i taste your funeral.
 
Even the radiators' anthem
appears unchanged.
 
(Theirs the only music
  until the first psalm).
 
Downstairs,
someone grapples
the compartments of breakfast cutlery;
we fall between the forks.
 
In the moments prior to your departure
the dark coats fold on us;
 
a clouded navy blue,
a sentried black.
 
And all the dawns
come rushing
through the milk spout
on the cereal.


* Helen Pletts is a regular IS&T contributor and has a new collection coming out in 2009.

2 comments

  1. Fabulous – this is really punchy. I love it.
    Anne B
    xxx

  2. Thank you so much Anne for loving this poem ! x

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *


*