More on Mum

The poem below is another part of the grieving process for me I guess. I wrote it last month. I haven't been writing much in the way of poetry but it is always the most intimate of forms and so the one most of us write in, if we write at all and the form we often begin writing in. This also means its the form most open to 'abuse' in the sense that we might write any old thing.
Be that as it may, this is a poem about my old thing or 'old baggage' as I sometimes (affectionately) called her.

A Poem I Didn’t Write for Her
 
This is the first poem she will not see,
Can not ask
What it means to me,
Why I wrote it
How I felt
Who or what inspired
The words that knelt
Before the ocean,
Before the void
Before the voice-
lessness
Before the gods
 of nothingness.
Why the coat of blood
And rain
Hangs, and washes
The cheek
With pain.
Why she can not
Hear,
Why her breath
Is gone,
Why her ashes
Float
along
That stretch
of beach
That road
 of tears
Why she cannot reach
My hand so near.
 
I cannot sound,
And hear her fury.
I cannot speak
And hear her song.
 
The words are now
For anyone
And I don’t care
Who hears them.
 
This is the first poem she will not see,
I cannot say
What it means to me,
Or why I wrote it.