I am tired. <br />So very tired <br />of making it all fit. <br /> <br />I suppose it’s called <br />grief. <br /> <br />It wears you down, <br />into a rounded rock <br />in a dull dumb landscape, <br />where once was <br />an exhilarating mountain range, <br />lush and forested. <br /> <br />Everything, or something like it, <br />has happened before - <br />and why bother anyway? <br /> <br />Just to walk away <br />from the flowers, grass, the seagulls and people, <br />the tiptoeing, fence-walking cat <br />in front of that hazy tall-trunked forest <br />across the grey wide river <br />as it meets the Tasman tides. <br /> <br />A lovely break at Port Waikato! <br />with the heat, noise, active flea or two, <br />and mosquitoes at night - <br />but most of all <br />with grief, <br />my companion with no name, <br />because grief does not <br />say anything.<br /><br />Ian Trousdell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hard-times-grief-does-not-say-anything/
