Goodbye, fair corpse.
A twinge of remorse
Grips me as I place my boot downwind
The frozen moan
Your twisted, blistered mouth uttered
Once upon a snowstorm
Not many days ago.
Sweet 68, according to your driving licence,
And you’re in your Gucci padded men’s down jacket,
Swing tag still on,
With your Scarpa Phantom walking shoes,
That had never seen the sun
Before they saw the snow,
And your iPhone,
Wrapped in the warranty leaflet and the plastic protector film
(Not that you’d have got signal at this altitude).
A first-aid kit lies overturned
At your naked, blanched-white ankle
And a thermos cup sits palliatively
At your clenched, outstretched Sherpa glove.
And that is all.
You had dreamed of seeing your youngest son marry
And your grandkids graduate,
Then you sucked in your last breaths
And howled them out
Until the bitter end.
Their love for you just didn’t run warm enough, my friend.