(Just a particularly disturbing thought and its consequence).
News of your death will hasten my demise.
We always thought that stress would be the problem
and tried to keep our feelings on an even plane,
each helping the other until contention came knocking,
knowing when to back down to let the ripples quietly disperse,
sharing our triumphs like a chocolate biscuit
and facing the challenges like mountaineers,
one each end of the fraying rope, trusting the other.
But now I’m told that you have gone,
swiftly, with no warning
leaving but your fading whispered echo
“I’m sorry”.
Yes, news of your death brings such desolation
and it will kill me.
© Graham Sherwood 1/2013
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