The Person 

Where does the person go once
the shell is gone that stooping low
held the small hands of children? Where

are the pictures from the palette
filled, lines blurred softly, colour
leaking playfully in the light? There is no

tremor in the earth discernible
as the steady footfall of ones we’ve
loved, nor in the hills echoes of their sounds

still flying. We cannot from the thrust
of flowers the spring reveals
cultivate the scent of what

we’ve lost. It must go
somewhere the person that is not a place
where bricks sit in their mortar

or bells toll the time bereft
in each clanging moment; somewhere
perhaps less substantial than a passing thought

but as present as the gaping sky
that holds us – cold mother –
and weeps. If you move on

like the passing summer shedding
heat, are blown with leaves
in swirling eddies

upwards, I will risk cliffs of the mind
to find you, shed all my senses to know that place
that is not anywhere

nor nothing,
to know the you that resides inside the you
I love. It must be there the person

waiting quietly
while the sea swallows the sun and the blue sky
bruises purple then ceases to be.


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