Keith, a widower who came to our Cósagach Soul Spa in January, has since started “writing his grief” in the most spot on and poignant words. I always look forward to reading his posts on Instagram where he posts as @grievingwidower. He sent us this poem about the tribe we’re now part of:
Strange new world
So you’ve arrived in a new country;
A strange place this,
Everything looks the same but feels different
Other people live here
Grieving people, you’ve been told
Who are they?
You can’t really tell
They seem normal most of the time
Is it like a Club then?
Is that a thing?
You remember the Golf Club
At the wake
The Past dead presidents stared down at you
From the wall
Red jacketed all,
With their reserved parking slots,
The ultimate accolade.
Playing golf is like being dead anyway
You’ve always thought
Was another club you didn’t talk about,
What was it, that Ute and Sarah said?
Shit club to golden thread
Well Fight Club/ Shite Club certainly fit
And being bereaved is certainly shit
Shit Club, then
But club is too ‘hobby’ a word
Bowls, snooker, photo yeah
But not death
Nobody wants in on that one
Just Shit then?
That won’t do; too off-patent, too generic
So, not a club, but a people.
The grief people?
Nah, sounds like an Emo dance troupe
Are they a tribe then?
That might be it
Who are they,
The grief tribe?
As with any tribe, you don’t join,
No choice here
No rhyme nor reason to it either
God doesn’t seem involved
PC gone mad
An unwanted tribe, then
People find themselves in it someday
But in the tribe, life for the members still goes on
Day by day
One foot in front of the other,
With those they have loved by their side
But sometimes you lift your head up to check the path
And realise that you’re not doing this alone
And that others are on their own journey
Moving in the same direction alongside you,
Not just members of a tribe
But people you can lean on,