Gathering Moss - ireneintheworld


I heard a woman say she was eating

herself to death – she didn’t have a gun.

Keep this secret behind the door

weighed down by the aroma of

home-made bread, roast pork.


Let the house soak it up

fat years slip and slide, hide

chronic jokes in the bathroom.

Mathematics complicate

the facts of life, pave the path.


Fresh air tangles with TV drama.

Rose bushes bloom as she grows

into the walls.

Chat about her pretty face –

pity the body mass index.


She’s hidden her voice in a box.

Tissue-thin, it drifts under

doors, through the letter-box

falls like mountain mist

heavy and wet.


Too late,  cakes can’t celebrate

her date of birth

and mirth dies on lips.

If it takes twenty

years, is it still suicide?

The End

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