Grief thief of time crawls off.... Dylan Thomas (1914–1953)
Each day he took a folding canvas chair,
his lunch, a rose, a paper with the news
or sometimes some small thing he might repair.
He’d set the chair so he could take in views
of gardens, well-kept lawns, and far away,
the hills. He’d say hello, and then he’d choose.
Perhaps he’d read the news to her? “Today
the queen flies in!”. He’d have a cup of tea,
or fix his belt. One day he could not stay.
Quite suddenly he felt a need to be
away from there - to be where there was life.
Her grave was just a grave, and he was free.
His grief had gone, as though a surgeon’s knife
had flashed. He left a rosebud for his wife.