Sometimes a week’s work is all about the one poem   
On November the 25th I wrote something
At the end of the night, my soul saved
By honouring a special hero of mine
And the ideal love that informed him.
The next day I rode from Hillingdon
On a Coronic bus for two hours,
To Holland Park, delivering it to his widow,
Who later emailed to tell me
That she would ‘read it to the autumn air’
At his grave. I wrote other things. Always do,
But this was the moment that mattered
A woman now in her eighties,
Reading my still hopeful words to the dead.
And reliving the love that I can still only
Dream of. For if we are the long separated
Then there still remain calls for closeness
And embraces to chase in far beds.
There will also be kisses to come
Set to occur beyond breathing
Such as the ones I still savour
From someone who clearly prefers
To forget. But today I think of their love
And of how survival’s bones bind a marriage
From such solitude I have touched them
And on a cold day in London
Found a warmth of some sort beside death.
                                                                                  David Erdos November 27th 2020
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