I gave away his clothes

I gave away his clothes today.
Two years they have hung there
While he, not yet dead, would ask
‘Shall we go home now?’

I kiss goodbye, and say ‘See you on Monday’.
Never will I tell him
‘I’ve given away your clothes’.
Nor that I signed the NHS form
That deprives him of his liberty.

Winter cold is coming soon.
They are now appealing for clothes.
Plenty of people in need
Of warm trousers, jackets and coats.

And if not now, when?
So,I took your clothes from the cupboard.
It is my right as your wife.
Indeed,the last rite for a loved one

I did this too for my Dad fifty years ago,
Heaping his clothes, still smelling of him,
Into plastic sacks to take to the Shelter,
Where the down and outs would joke
“We are wearing dead men’s clothes”.

Should I have taken your clothes further away?
I do not want to see other men
Swaggering and staggering about in them.
I have looked after these jackets and suits,
Kept them clean and moth-free
For months and years:

That black polyester was a funeral suit;
That thick one he wore in the coldest months;
That one we bought to support the rugby;
And the reversible was a gift from a dandy nephew.

Of course, it is not just the clothes 
that tear up my memories:
It is your body moving in them that I miss.

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