I sailed on your ship.
Perhaps, some might say,
I was even the sail
that captured the wind
to drive you homewards.
Now, with the flotsam
and jetsam, I drift.
I feel I’ll sink soon,
left to pray about
What storm hit us,
the atom split,
so whole were we?
You are my buoy,
so claim me,
claim me in love
and possess me.
Here I lie,
out of sight.
Held in the pan, bowing down to the water,
a fallen oak: still a giant in death,
on his knees, portraying humility. Gone,
his emperor cloth of leaves, his roots hanging,
unabashed genitalia warmed in the evening sun.
All the grace of a rusted railway line.
He sleeps among post-box trees, pillar trees,
leg trees and finger trees, all content
to stay where nature found them, this enclosure
that commemorates the dead by staying still.
As the ass might approach the elderly, lamed lion,
I mount him with ginger footing and proclaim
myself king, reaching for the sun as a crown.
The night falls in and I climb down, wanting home.
At first, a hoax, cruellest hoax.
The Albert Clock has not stopped.
Black Mountain not bowed in grief.
City Hall remains a roundabout.
Then, read in reliable sources.
The swifts still swing around the bay
or nestle inside the Crescent.
Friday accrues its mundane sands.
Then, the decanting of respect;
shoppers pitch down Royal Avenue.
denial and disbelief long snuffed out
through communal mourning.
Too real to believe, this mendacity of dying.
Perhaps I'll find acceptance in his words.