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