Grief holds it’s own

Grief holds it’s own

rythmn and timing;

cannot be hurried, lectured to,

told to ‘get over it’;

scolded, or scurried.


Will not be convenient;

eats up your day,

disrupts your ‘to do’ tasks,

gets in the way.


Grief has it’s own timing

and ways;

cannot be fought against;

takes up your days.


Infects your evening;

riddles your nights,

and what ever you turn to;

nothing feels right.


This is a long and dark

winter of discontent,

your hands are empty;

your mind is longing;

your heart is rent.


Nothing sustains you,

everything maims you;

shadows abound.


 But then, you turn round.


In lengthening evening light,

swathes of bright daffodils

are burning bright;

your veins run with a fierce delight.


And you are wondering,

where your grief went.



(‘And underneath are the ever lasting arms’)






Ingrid Andrew <> HeartsSong




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