Peppermint gum,
I handed one - half discarded;
how far we stretch when flavours dull
and loose thoughts the last
we push around our tongue.

Lately death is everywhere,
it sits on the rim and recites
the contrition of unburied mad.

Demons that swirl,
unfolded for the world
in aching concession - how sorrow
leans heavy on the bones.

It isn't the expiry of flesh,
he keeps tab between lines,
a scratched grey tally
under the lamp by the bed.

Death is the loss of love,
of all things hope
you once carnivorously indulged
with unfettered joy.

A sanctuary for the crazed and unkept
who swear by the scent of rust
that peel off old Church-bells in November.  

That bronze hue of a land less roamed,
dialect closer to home.

Death was in the bay,
it oared the shores this morning
so I braced dawn a different person
without you.