Too Late

Although you sort of know this could be her
last year, you always try to keep things normal.
‘We’re all of us dying’ you said when she complained,
‘today, let’s make the most of the time we have’.
Our separate streams converged a long way back,
ran clear through sunlit fields towards the sea,
but now the flow is sluggish, shallows spread;
around us lies a semi-stagnant sump.

In spite of how things look you still believe
the flow will not be dammed; another day
like yesterday will follow. When it doesn’t,
you shout her name around the empty house,
aching to hear her answering voice again.
You see the empty chairs and bed and rooms,
the things she made and chose and loved and wore,
and can’t believe that everything has changed.

An article of faith: you always thought
actions more eloquent than easy words;
but she might not agree. Words from the heart
could have been used more often than they were.
Both words and actions fail you in the end:
she slips away without a last farewell.
As when you flick a switch, and fuse the lights,
and shocking darkness hits you like a train.

They’re frozen now, those things unsaid, undone.
She couldn’t wait; she’d had enough; too late
to move her bed downstairs for the garden view,
to focus every second on her alone,
to leave no doubt how much you need her still,
to hold her close, refuse to let her go.
You always gave her what you thought she needed.
How stupid, arrogant, blind, that seems today.