2 of 486

Write now Article Tools

A dinner waits in the oven, dry as tinder sticks.
You hadn't come home for tea, at the normal time of six.
I gave you a few calls, but only a ringing tone,
And no reply to my message, asking when would you be home.

Were you on the track, that runs around the bay,
Set out rather late, forgot the time of day?
Where was your note, saying you'd be late for tea?
With the pills they gave you, always in dream.

As the dusk began to cloak, I drove the waterside,
I'd hoped to see you walking, homeward, in your stride.
But only swooping gulls, and joggers caught my eye,
All oblivious in their flight, to the angst I held inside.

At about half past nine, the doorbell rang at last,
Thought you were back, no questions would I ask.
I'd welcome you with my smile, check you were OK,
Set you up with another meal, and chat about your day.

But, it was not you.

Men in suits instead, came inside and we sat down.
Asked to talk to me, about an incident in the town.
Young male took his life, his ID, they were not sure,
But my heart died, when they described the clothes he wore.

Since that fateful tolling, served by tinny chimes,
Our world just keeps on spinning, with no regard for time.
Grimly we hang on, for what else can we do?
Searching for those demons, that leave us missing you.

Learn more about this author, Colin Ward.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.

Add your voice

Know something about Poetry: Suicide?
We want to hear your view. Write now!