The End – New Poem (First Draft)

The End

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.

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