“A process in the weather of the heart
Turns damp to dry”

~ Dylan Thomas ~

It was one of our late September holidays
swapping city for an English seaside town.
At season’s end yet still aglow, and busy with boats
gulls, and promenaders lured to the far decked horizons.
October brought us home. The bump to earth
softened by a pile of beachcombed memories,
some from boyhood and the war.

Perhaps that’s why neither of us took note.
The red flags subtly semaphoring your decline
went unread. And the MayDay call – unheard.
A happening so absolute. The beat of your heart
had ceased as mine sank – and all that we ever knew
of each other, petrified.
Yet because everything is movement, I’m automaton.
A solitary somnambulist, a dry ghost that cries in silence
talking aloud and alone if only to banish the unanswerable truth
of your eternal absence.

It’s been barely noticeable the changes since. The way this second
happening has turned out, bearing all the corny cliches of Spring.
For fear of feeling faithless I’ve clung to these few anniversaries
with a heavy hallowed hand. Now candles are lit like birthdays
and fresh flowers no longer smell decayed.

Two of us were buried with your death
but the earth turns again with the worm

Several reads of the Dylan Thomas poem "A process in the weather of the heart" brought this one into being for Peter's prompt: Middles and Turns