The Last Day of December

How could I have known,
that long-past, winter’s night...
the minutes stacked, each on each,
as slack as summer’s deckchairs
on a cold, deserted beach, that this –
the last time I would see you?

Outside – a neon sign, stuttered
its dying circle of brightness,
and what was to follow in its wake
were days of famine, and darkness –
each one spent in the frenzied arms
of lichen-ridden trees, once blossomed
at your behest.

Ink may fade, and paper age
under the sun's unrelenting light
as a silent epiphany leadens,
while the bells from a small, grey church
dirge in the middle distance;

and I know you will never get to read this...
but with every word, each line,
you are there in my mind’s eye,
and I will write, and write
and write...to keep you
a little alive.