It’s Gone Rose, everything we knew and loved gone. Now they make us curios of the past, like vampires they have sucked out our spirits so that they can worship their boring collage of lies. If they could they would put a tax on happiness, and if they could they would take away even our capacity to feel. Whispering water meadows, where ancient scarecrows laugh with the birds on twilight acres. The long walks down to St Ives bandstand when truth was being free, the Suffolk roads and Lindsey lowlands where your young face graced that generous sunshine.
All this and more I claim as ours, even though now, the funeral sun is setting on cemetery road and, the world is my asylum, believe this Rose, if there is Love behind the universe, then we will have a timeless rendezvous, but for now, we must be content to wait, and even though we are drunk with fatigue, keep walking.
Please God,
send me duration legs,
and let me trust you when I arrive
at that place between sunset
and pitch darkness,
and let it also be true
of Rosie’s road.