My morbid imagination is at least fuel for creativity….

‘I cut my hair. You’d hate it. 

But “you’re” not “you” and you’re not here, 

so why should I care-

now, it’s only hair.

A week ago, it was a *symbol* of devotion-an outward sign of my inward love; 

running down my back- eagerly seeking the stroke of husband’s hands.

Now, it’s just wire, thread, wool, shorn, cut-off and dead on the hairdresser’s floor-

the *sign* switched off, 

the Love spilled out with 

no hands to catch it.

How suddenly death devalues everything-
it steals meaning from that which one didn’t even consider to get valued in the ‘before’.

And now is only the grey ‘after’-

Filled to bursting with the heaviness of nothingness, 

and deafened by the clanging sound of memories and things raped of value:

Scraping shells which previously where hands Husband caressed; 

No Man’s Land where previously lay Husband’s head.

And now, a bare neck,

previously draped with a wife’s thick locks to please her Love.

But you cannot please the dead. 

So what was, in the ‘before’ an offering,

is now only hair-

And without your smile, your gaze your stroke. 

I do not care.’
NLB 

(Written 1.1.15)

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