The church is cold, its grey stone walls
seeming to breathe frigid air down on the congregation of mourners.
They all sit in silence,
shoulders hunched,
eyes averted, starring at fingers clasped in laps.
All is quiet, the silence is ringing,
ringing with the memories,
ringing with words screamed but never heard,
it swells with reverence and respect,
respect earned but denied.
The daisies are beautiful,
but she had really loved chrysanthemums,
she would have loved to be out in the open,
Feel the wind through her hair, in her face,
Even her dress is all wrong,
she would never have been caught dead in it!
how could he not have realised that?!
she looks down at him,
his grief wrapped around him,
even tighter than his black sombre coat,
she watches the thin flat line of his lips,
lips that for once are quiet, lips that finally listen,
he finally gives her this one moment of his attention,
this precious minute of silence,
Pity she can’t hear it
‘cos he’d waited until she had gone deaf with the waiting,
Waiting for him to look at her and see her, not what he wanted to see,
Waiting for him to feel the flowers and the thorns with her, tell the difference,
She’d painted her song but he didn’t know to dance,
She danced but he looked right through her, didn’t even have a clue!
He’d watched so intently and missed the point,
He saw the bird but failed to see the walls,
she cried but he didn’t see the beauty and the death in the tears,
she wonders if he realised,
that she’d needed to get his attention as much as he’d wanted hers,
she'd just needed him to pause, stop for a moment,
But he’d been too busy,
thinking the thoughts that he thought she was,
Right until she wasn’t,
And only in death did she finally get her moment,
her one precious minute,
But he could as well save it,
Because his silence now falls on deaf ears
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