This grief is a quiet visitor
Waiting for its turn to speak
Gently, holding up its hand as if to say
Don't mind me
This grief comes in the dead of night
Not to wake, but to stir
And hold you a while
In contemplation
For all the trouble you caused when living
Your life without regard for consequence
Your answer was
To put the kettle on
Shall I put the kettle on, mate?
You'd say
I'll put the kettle on
And recall when I said goodbye
You nodded and shrugged
Your one, good eye glassed over
As I kissed you on the cheek
This grief it comes without words
It comes and goes more often than you did
In your heartbreaking, politest manner
Telling me to put the kettle on
Don't mind me
Just put the kettle on, mate
