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).
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.


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

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

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