Death stopped his
Clock at 49 years, 38
Days and 54 seconds.
Enough? No sense in
Asking nonsense
Questions, his measure
Weighed no more
Nor less than 49
Years, 38 days and
54 seconds. No
Use holding
A bicycle, a
Cigarette, a
Curt phone-call,
Suspect , no murder
Here, only Life
Then Death.
Rerouted
So abruptly,
Where does he stamp-stomp now –
Swear or
Hack a laugh
And scratch
His ear to
Chase a thought?
What’s that sound
We hear on the
Stairs? Silence and the
Flaccid patter of
Other people’s feet,
Not his firm
Tread.
Who’s that voice
That Northern
Lurch? – No, not
Him, too mincing,
Not his whirr from
A tar-blacked pipe.
His last weekend,
His last of
Life, what
Passed, passed
Clear and
Flat, as if
To expose,
Not far ahead,
A fork in the road.
Off he veered,
Yet visible in
The morning glare, but
Shrinking,
Slowly, steps
Grow softer
As his edges
Fizz their last,
And crackle warmly
Into Horizon.
In memory of a man, a salesman from Nottingham, fond of sailing and his 3 children.
Being Every Day 