The End – New Poem (First Draft)
At forty minutes past one
a nurse opened a window
to let your soul out.
Mum paid 60 pounds
to get back to your home
from the hospital.
Because we’re still ‘kids’
even at 20, 23 and 26
we need to wait upstairs,
sit on the spare bed,
flick through Reader’s Digest
while arrangements for your
humanitarian funeral are being made.
The heating hasn’t been turned off
for three days, it’s like waiting into a womb.
When what has needed to be done, is done,
Mum and Dad and Wilma go to the hospital
to sign more legal pieces of paper, and pick
up the wallet that got lost.
We read the funeral estimate, while come dine with me
plays softly on the telly in the corner.
There’s a selection of nail varnish in the fridge,
next to Muller yogurts and a tub of Philadelphia
When the house has the three missing bodies back,
we go through a box of legal documents,
and find pictures of mum as a baby and toddler
in Lybia, and of Granddad as a young man
on a farm in the far reaches of Scotland.
I’d like to think my Granddad
came from an area so far North
that as a child he was able to watch
the Aurora Borealis dance
from his bedroom window.