The bells toll again —
Another death; another life cut short
Another full stop where a comma should be.
The funeral, the many funerals
Are busy spots of black
Men whispering into men and women weeping into women
And the endless lines of
Condolences, the many condolences
Hymns echo solemnly in the village church.
A hive of activity in the presence of a coffin
And what comes after?
A blankness, a mournful
Whiteness
The silence of
Wind chimes and wind
Floors creaking, doors squeaking
And the sound of distance, the long distance.
And what comes after?
The dreading of dread
Of solid shadows melting a drop a day
Of burly memories fading an inch a night
Of solitude building, building,
Building.
