he sat on a white mesh lining, between death
and a flat-topped wooden stool;
too full of years to cleave an old body-

and there was no wind rustling his door, 
no stench of coal fire decking sky
nor, the cold drift of night breeze 
cascading like gossip down untaught tongues

no...

silence was the heart pound of kete drums 
long after the rhythm had fallen to
soul searched meanings; 

and he,
found no epiphanies
to hallow hope,
no hand in the frail touch of darkness.

he waited...
then kissed  Denise awake,
palmed the mongrel's snout 
and held it to his face-
much like a man would his lover at the last,
then sighed until his lungs were dry.

there was no clamour in the set of night
no flutter on the lamp shade as he went-

the wood silvered, 
the rope hung loose 
and time... time
continued

  ~