The Final Part…

The Final Part…

He’s retired now himself, my boy Clem
And home to the cottage he came
For Libby, his wife and Clem look for us now
It’s back’ards but things ain’t the same.
And we all live a life of quiet now
In the village where the river’s in spate.
We watch from the garden as the days just go by
Rarely leaving through our creaky gate.

But it’s good to be here in the village
With our kinfolk not too far away
With Libby and Clem here beside us
It’s different but the clouds aren’t just grey.
There will come a time when I shuffle off too
But not too soon I hope, not too soon
For there’s lots of odd things that I’ve still yet to do
Not wrapped up in some useless cocoon.

©Joe Wilson - The Final Part…2021
A final part to ‘Dreaming of home’ and ‘More thoughts of Home.’
All three were written in a style similar to O. Henry
[William Sidney Porter (1862 – 1910)]

…and yet when finally I drew back the curtain, life was still there ticking away as always. For in truth, ‘time really does wait for no one’. My self-all-absorbing grief, is only a very small pothole along the much larger global road of life. I don’t care, it is my pothole.

I touch her things, my fingers gently passing over her wedding ring and her watch, both of which she had worn every day since we had married some forty eight years earlier. It has been four months since she was stolen away from me, she was taken away in an ambulance and I never saw her again. Even worse I never got to speak to her again. That is what I miss most of all, I will never hear her voice again. It could be, ‘can you pass me the butter knife please?’ or ‘have you read this article in the paper?’ or ‘I love you.’ I will never hear her say anything again. That breaks my heart.

Potholes get repaired but I am like the local council and their repair schedule, I will take forever.

Blank walls…

I miss you so very much my skin aches for your touch

The gentle contact of lovers and experience mixed

But the year of heartache severed the whole

And the love in my heart cannot now be fixed.

I lost my girl so cruelly to the ills of life

The best half of two was you, my wife

Now I sit here and stare at blank painted walls

Where I’ll sit for the rest of my life.

How sad life can be, how stark and cold

How riddled with grief can we cope

How lonely the life that gets left behind

Close your curtains, abandon all hope.

©JRW – Blank walls…2021

Wasted…

It was becoming a bad habit

Constantly drinking himself to oblivion.

Four Roses was fine Kentucky Straight bourbon

But it couldn’t go on, forever drunk

Vomiting like a slob, covering himself in puke

Waking in the early hours covered in snot and sweat.

He had to get to grips before the grips got him

Time to put the bottle away before he couldn’t

Life was once so straightforward

And then it wasn’t.

©Joe Wilson – Wasted…2021