Behind the barn in late afternoon
Uncle Ray lifts my brother
to the seat of a harrower
abandoned now
and rusted to this field of family
tilted and monumental
plunging its tines into memory
of broken earth
behind this life of the workhorses they were
My father and my Uncle Ray—talking
Scattered conversation
in hushed tones

...as skyscraping thunderheads
slashed through their heights
by arrows of fire
light the pumpkins
between hay bundles
of time golden

Phantom feelings
For who we used to be
Radiate from the space
That we once occupied
Together.

Once a balm, but now a raw irritation.

I know we're not there anymore,
That the us that was
Has been excised.
Yet against all reason I reach
To relieve the itch.

I walked along the mountain stream
Where dancing sunbeams shone and gleamed

It was such a peaceful place
The gentle breeze carressed my face

I came across a country stile
Where I could sit and think awhile

Far  away  from  this  dangerous  world
The  natural  beauty  just  unfurled.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK  2016.

I  am standing at the grave of a boy
We lost, a couple of months ago.
There was no elaborate church service or organs echoing off cathedral walls.

We are here today to mourn the death of a soul we cannot be sure is really dead.

You went missing.

That is what I told myself all those nights I spent out with lanterns,
Searching for you.
But it seems now that you intentionally ran away and the suspect in question is just the person you've become since you left.
You only died for me.
You only left me.

Everyone else still sees your wide-eyed smile and hears your singing soul.

"Have you seen this boy?"

No. Nobody has seen you since late November but I am the only one who remembers.

For you, I've written eulogy after ******* eulogy.
I mourned your loss and grieved in your absence.
I took gulp after bitter gulp of wine, each a toast to You.

I stand at your grave, eyes red and heart still in flames.
How come you turned to ashes before me, when we started this fire together?

I lay two roses on your tombstone,
One for each month you existed for me, next to me, with me.

I commemorate every bench we ever sat on:
"In unloving memory of two souls that loved too much and tried too little"

I was the only witness to your death
The only speaker at the service
And the single carrier of your casket.
I stand in an empty grave yard
And weep with the dead.

I realize  that when you asked me to  feed your two calicos
while vacationing, I wasn’t given title to  pluck four large
tomatoes  from  your perfectly trained  vines.

The tomatoes were Christmas red, unbruised
and husky. It seemed criminal and unfair
to my palate not to devour them
by dusk the day I stole them;

in my shallow defense
both of your cats
repeatedly hissed
at me when fed.