A grey cloud lingers
in the back of my head.
My husband's gone out.
No. He is dead.
He went out for The Times
early this morning.
At seven. No.
Seven years, since he
went to heaven. A grey
cloud lingers in the back
of my mind. I wait for the note
I each morning
find. There it is, propped up on the
table. But no cloud today,
alas, just the sorrow. I am
able to see what he wrote
"Dear, I've gone fishing
- I will be back by tomorrow"