If grief comes to me…: A poem 

I wake up to the early morning breezes 

My thoughts paint my walls like friezes 

And a child’s innocent garden of wonder yields 

From life’s bitter ironies, this armour shields  

My euphoria is vapour on the windows of my lounge 

In the shanties of adversity, laughter rises from my ground 

To hope for only a little, is mediocrity, but within bounds 

I’ll whip up consolation from my eggs, make grief a clown 

Empty cans make a noise, so it is my choice 

to put blooms in the vases, and silence despair’s voice 

Being poor in poverty is when it is grudged aloud 

The valour of the pauper is in his silent shroud 

The walk on narrow paths is worth every lesson learnt 

When humility is the fire, who cares what else is burnt?

If grief comes stalking, like a vulture, even on my deathbed 

I’ll still have flowers by my bedstead, not a tear I’ll shed