Missing
your presence in this world, you who
are silent. Eliot said
“sunlight on a broken column” and
there you are
while we Hollow men, we stuffed men
mill through our stream of
days, tilting,
as the windmills
spin their spindly arms,
windswept, creaking in that
sunlight where you
hide
always.
I miss your presence, here;
you leave me fragments,
pieces, filaments
clinging —
a voice, a face,
your slow grace, drifting,
hovering always
in the periphery;
laughter round a corner as I turn and
you are not there, it is not your hand, soft on my
shoulder, it is not your sweetness against my cheek
it is not the scent of you, though I might find some
fragrant memory, trapped between pages…
suggestions of possibility
heartbreaking and
endless like
sunlight and wind
rushing ever over
the soft
roar
of eternal seas.