Longs Close

It is not you I mourn but the walk to your house
through the wheat on Dodds lane
and the haze on Pyrford roads in high summer.
Now, bereft of my place in those times
as memories lose shape; all hope of renaissance forsaken.
I heard that for you resurrection was fact.

These days are a house
we have leased for a while
old with other people’s dust
and quaint curtains shadow us
from the sunlight. The landlord
is unseen and previous tenants left
minute traces of their living.

Small wonder the clock chimes
like a sob in the throat before we realise
mourners are astir in the street.

It is time to walk on through the gates, out on your road,
the key is turned forever.

(For my grandfather Victor Charles Henry Eydmann 16th June 1919 – 22nd May 2009)