The apples falling like great drops of dew
to bruise themselves an exit from themselves.
And it is time to go, to bid farewell
to one’s own self, and find an exit
from the fallen self.
The Ship of Death by D H Lawrence
The Silence, For my Dear Friend Fred Holland
Pam said you chose where to be buried, and left enough
for the tomb stone.
John said you chose the poem to be read at your funeral;
The Ship of Death by D H Lawrence.
I listen to them and remember your last days
you looked so different
you said you were tired and that you’ve had enough
you squinted trying to grasp the moth eaten memories.
In the silence of where you have gone
do you miss the sound of traffic?
the smell of smoke?
the birds singing their last song as the sun sets?
is there grief, tears, longing where you are?
The magnificent man I used to know, always had something
brilliant to say,
though you never quite found your place in this life
you knew exactly where to be placed in death,
and of course, knew exactly how to say goodbye.
