Your browser is no longer supported

For the best possible experience using our website we recommend you upgrade to a newer version or another browser.

Your browser appears to have cookies disabled. For the best experience of this website, please enable cookies in your browser

We'll assume we have your consent to use cookies, for example so you won't need to log in each time you visit our site.
Learn more

Angry bereavement


Poem submitted by Simon McKeown

Angry bereavement

Sits on his bed, smoking his pipe.

I ask if he’s OK.

‘Fine’ the reply, in hurting voice.

Not sat with him on bed (I remember my training),

Still I care, I just want him to know –

I want to help at his time of angry bereavement.

So I go about my job,

Feeding them and him.

I check every five minutes.

He doesn’t want it, but we do it all the same.

A different face every five minutes,

And still he sits, thinking, and waiting,

In angry bereavement.

We expect the worst

But nothing, no nothing, exhibited at the moment.

Oh god, this job I do.

We deal with human losses every day.

How much can one man take?

Every door-slam we jump, and turn with worried look,

Fearing angry bereavement.


Readers' comments (2)

Have your say

You must sign in to make a comment

Please remember that the submission of any material is governed by our Terms and Conditions and by submitting material you confirm your agreement to these Terms and Conditions. Links may be included in your comments but HTML is not permitted.

Related Jobs