Among the Mourners

Douglas was dead.

He died painfully,

So she was told,

And what was it to her,

His death? Why

Think of it so often?

He was short, intense,

His narrow head

Twitched like a bird's

When he talked

With a slight smile,

As though he heard

A voice within, a truth,

And what remained without

Did not concern him.

Few would mourn a friend.

He was too far off,

A man respected,

Envied for his talents,

His slight figure

Seemed to vibrate

In his large green jacket,

Baggy, grey trousers,

And blue plimsolls.

She did not like him,

He was unattainable,

He was too certain,

She'd wanted him.

Now she was almost

Glad he was dead,

But his absence

Was a felt absence,

The nerves tightened

With each memory.

It was not only his air

Of always listening

For what was within

Which troubled her,

Though what was within

Killed him.

©Terry Hodgson2025