News of a funeral

the passing of a life

memories dredged to lay damply on the surface of the mind

some things spring quickly, so clearly

the horse bets

countless puffed cigarettes

gravelling voice

like tyres running across nicotine stained vocal chords

and the way he stood of a morning

one arm folded across his belly

the other holding the paper

rocking back on his heels

as if he had all the time in the world

and he always seemed to

other recollections emerge like Polaroid film

through the course of days between news and grave

he told a lot of jokes

many I’d heard before

but there was something in the way he sparkled

that I had to laugh regardless

which only encouraged more

I thought of our lives and where they intersected

I had grown so much older in between

but in that moment here I was again

nineteen, twenty, thirty-four

standing silently by a grave

tossing down prayers and thoughts

to a dear old friend

who couldn’t hear me anymore

*his mates called him Blossom, an incongruous name at best, to me he was Martin but the title seemed apt. Blossoms leave the tree, so do we.