He died in the middle bedroom

In the midst of a winter din

In the cold of a Bendigo bungalow

With no one to hear his sin

On the table he’d left the paper

With the pages all crinkled and worn

And his blue fingers inked from their turning

For the sister to find in the morn.

“Tom is late” the sister said

As she pushed the door away

And there she found him staring up

All cold and gone and grey.

The mother moaned and called his name

The sister try as she might

Could not keep the old lady free

Of the pain and the morning sight.

The son, the son, the mother cries

In the midst of a moon he is gone

The son is dead in the middle room

And the sun is barely shone.

Grant Fenton August 2017





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