Sky porridge grey. No sun. Along the quay
a skittish wind bites cold face, aching head.
loose pages blow like gulls, cannot be read
because not written. There’s a sort of glee
in so much sadness. It’s the rictus grin
grief’s ache puts on each face, that and the cold.
We mourn him not as we’d have mourned him old
complete and done. We mourn the might-have-been
One handshake more, one joke, or one last book,
We’d squeeze them out of him, like drops of blood
if we could keep him, selfishly, we would.
Remember how he smiled pained, one last look
Farewell as he worked expert his last room.
One crow road feather for hearse horse’s plume.