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Hard Times/ Grief Does Not Say Anything

I am tired.
So very tired
of making it all fit.

I suppose it’s called
grief.

It wears you down,
into a rounded rock
in a dull dumb landscape,
where once was
an exhilarating mountain range,
lush and forested.

Everything, or something like it,
has happened before -
and why bother anyway?

Just to walk away
from the flowers, grass, the seagulls and people,
the tiptoeing, fence-walking cat
in front of that hazy tall-trunked forest
across the grey wide river
as it meets the Tasman tides.

A lovely break at Port Waikato!
with the heat, noise, active flea or two,
and mosquitoes at night -
but most of all
with grief,
my companion with no name,
because grief does not
say anything.

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