Touched by John Naughton’s writing about memories of his deceased wife, Sue, and quoting this poem by Peter Porter:
The words and faces proper to
My misery are private–you
Would never share your heart with those
Whose only talent’s to suppose,
Nor from your final childish bed
Raise a remote confessing head —
The channels of our lives are blocked,
The hand is stopped upon the clock,
No one can say why hearts will break
And marriages are all opaque:
A map of loss, some posted cards,
The living house reduced to shards,
The abstract hell of memory,
The pointlessness of poetry–
These are the instances which tell
Of something which I know full well,
I owe a death to you–one day
The time will come for me to pay
When your slim shape from photographs
Stands at my door and gently asks
If I have any work to do
Or will I come to bed with you.