Europa Poets' Gazette No 73

Feature Poet



You’re Allowed To Cry
In the stone gardens of grief, there is no hierarchy.
The dramas and deaths of
the famous, rich and royal
are paraded before us, media mounted on
Wagnerian structures of lamentation,
demanding we gaze on in awe,
reverential lumps in our throats,
giving them more sway
than the muted wails of
the eight-year-old hiding down on a tangled secret path,
fleeing the treachery and scorn of her best friend.
I take your tears, my little one, from this dark garden
and lay them, with blossoms and candles,
on a more public stage for
how else can new best friends find you?
To the child who didn’t get a lollipop,
to the woman lifting her road-broken cat,
to the girl whose phone didn’t ring,
to the youth slow-slouching alone on the
early Sunday morning pavements,
to the couple burying the old dog
in the garden,
I say,
let your tears flow along with
those from the war zone,
those from the screwed-up protection order,
those from the mother of the child in the burning house,
those from the prisoner hearing the footsteps,
You are allowed to cry,
For in the stone gardens of grief,
there is no hierarchy.
© Tim Heath