One year has passed and your room
Will contain only your books now and papers,
Squatting no doubt, these lost objects are simply
Seeking your touch. The taste of your thumb
As you licked before scampering through
Flesh fed pages, that your pen translated
And through a river of words, plumbed
And sucked. Some men become mythical,
While remaining real and true to their children.
And yet to others, clear windows are easily
Glazed by regard. Death of course, is aloof,
Priding itself on its distance, denying us all
Rights to visit, with enforced relocation
It’s only visible law and command.
And yet for you, death is life
As you remain sat amongst us;
There in the love we have for you
And in the guiding line you still write.
Present in the impossible speech
That will be monologuing your absence,
While in the ghost rooms you continue
To subvert and contain these lost times.
We will continue to suffer and stand
In the still moving shadows you’ve left us,
Hearing your voice at our shoulder
And naturally thinking why
You had to leave on that day
When those we know are made for you;
As our hands arrange themselves over paper
And the fast word forms, silence cries.
For the failing body can house
A resurgent mind for all ages
Which we must adapt to in stages;
Especially on such a bright day in summer
When loss shines through sunlight,
Or the scratching of cloud
On blue sky.
David Erdos June 30th 2018
Collage Rupert Loydell