You smiled quietly when we gave you a card, cleared your throat and said thanks. We found them all you know, when we were clearing the loft, all in date order (you’d pencilled the date on each envelope), held together with a rubber band, wrapped in plastic and sellotaped down. I’m not sure why we all wrote this one.
It was not your ghost, of course not,
you have not passed.
But the thought of you, the spirit of you,
the word you had given to be here.
From the empty bed, pillow unpressed,
to the empty cup, no coffee in the kitchen air,
the space where you should have been,
the emptiness of your promise is my companion.
all energy fully spent
your smiling brown eyes
My years turn
like a key in a lock.
Now the knowledge,
now the wisdom.
The beach stones are thousand-year smooth, grey light grey when the clouds clear the moon, black as the night when the misting returns. The sky-black sea crashes foam white at its border. If there are voices, they are distant, both in place and time.
the only person on the riverbank walking away from town
the only person with no dog or a rugby scarf
he holds his shopping bag tight and swinging slightly
See? I have a right to exist. I have every right to be here.
it has rained and rained on the hills upstream
the river flows deep, the colour of builder’s tea
beyond the last fields the sea waits
rain batters roof tiles
the red shutters may not hold
my heart is not storm ready
but who is the one
who is the one who
is the final one
who is the only one
sun arrows down from cloudless skies
winter wind bringing ice to skin
in the distance the hill burns