The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace. AM 1681

Photo by Limor Zellermayer on Unsplash

A moment plucked from a past
that could not 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.

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