The Mourning Sun
The Mourning Sun
Her toothbrush in its holder
Never seen out of place,
With head facing East
To meet the mourning sun.
Her favourite dress in her wardrobe
Silky, purple, good as new,
It hangs between the blue top, and black skirt
With creases slowly forming.
Her makeup sits on the table
Powders spilled here and there
From her workday rush
But now she’s learnt not to spill
Her place at the dinner table
Across from her weeping husband
Is always set neatly
Around her empty plate
Her gravestone in the cemetery
Is the freshest of all
Creamy white marble that shines
In the face of the mourning sun.
Her toothbrush in its holder
Never seen out of place,
With head facing East
To meet the mourning sun.
Her favourite dress in her wardrobe
Silky, purple, good as new,
It hangs between the blue top, and black skirt
With creases slowly forming.
Her makeup sits on the table
Powders spilled here and there
From her workday rush
But now she’s learnt not to spill
Her place at the dinner table
Across from her weeping husband
Is always set neatly
Around her empty plate
Her gravestone in the cemetery
Is the freshest of all
Creamy white marble that shines
In the face of the mourning sun.