A moment plucked from a past
That cannot last
The tone and timbre of a long-lost voice
Heaven-sent, her voice in my head,
No longer alive, no longer dead.
The recollected smell of burning gas
On a cold winter's morning, in, maybe, 1965,
When she was so glad to be alive, and kicking.
I am rudely yawning as she warns me
Not to rush
To take my time.
I do not mind her warning, as I should,
But cycle like the clappers
Hot blood, to hear the sound of bells
Announce my real, passing, presence.
I did not hear
Time's wingèd chariot
Draw so near.