8:30 am, Heart Attack Road

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.

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