Counting
Imagine that you’re sitting
on the edge of your bed.
Perhaps you’re shaving your legs.
And you see that the floor
is covered with dust.
Wherever you look there’s dust
and the longer you look
the more dust there is
but you do not fetch
the hoover or dustpan
because your father has just died
so you sit on the edge of your bed
look at the floor and think
that you might stay there
counting the motes of dust.
Imagine that you’re sitting
on the edge of your bed.
You remember your father’s arms
brown against the white sheets,
the dry scrape of his breath
and you are lost
in the uncountable
spaces of grief
Sharon Phillips retired from a career in education in 2015 and started to write poems and short stories again, after a break of forty years. She lives in Dorset with her husband, two cats and two dogs and is currently doing an MA in creative writing. Sharon’s poems have been published in Snakeskin and Three Drops from the Cauldron, and on Algebra of Owls and Amaryllis.