Tristan Hazell lives and works in the shadow of the Westway on Portobello Road. What follows is a collection of observations, reviews, social comment, fiction, poetry, art criticism and more. Much of it is fiction and some of it will offend someone somewhere, I hope.

Saturday, April 5, 2014

A poem for a dead mother.

I'm supposed to write a poem about her now she is dead.

but I couldn't write about her when she was alive

so why expect anything different now.

Nothing rhymes with death… And

She died thankfully in my sleep.



I miss her.

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