Peter Phillips
Plaything
A bed bath at night and again in the morning,
it soothes you, like a piece of chocolate,
photos of grandchildren.
This week your house was sold; black bags
full of you, in piles for Oxfam.
We should be doing this when you're dead,
but death thinks you are a game, a plaything
to be toyed with and like a spoilt child
wants his way, to do things in his time.
I'm getting used to your death, this slowest
of processions. When you're gone there will be
a hole in my head and part of my mind
and daily thoughts will have to think differently.
The trouble is, you have become a habit.
This poem is from a sequence entitled Looking For You
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