My friend is dead.
We met wearing green blazers
One September long ago,
in the north of the country.
Two working class kids
at the posh grammar.

We lead separate lives for decades
then met again as if all the years had dropped
from us.
I was so happy.

He chose to end his life
in the merry merry month of May
I talked to him the day before
On the phone. He said he was alone.

His parents and his sister dead
And Meg, his collie, too.
I didn't think he'd do anything.
You never do.
I've learnt that too.

And now my friend has gone
And I don't know what to do
Or how to carry on.
Except grieve his passing.
And remember his laughing face.
That big intake of breath.
Then the spluttery explosion of mirth.

But even that's sad too.
I remember a line
from our 'A'-level text,
Much Ado About Nothing,
it was:
Everyone can master a grief.
but he that has it.

Some modern pedants would
bowdlerize the text, no doubt,
obsessed as they are with gendered pronouns,
but, if  she is grieving,
then that is truly awe-full too.