know now why the harvest was so rich that year,
fields fair overburdened with crop,
beneath an ever more golden sun.
For him, I know,
and, within the knowing
stays the remembering,
sharpened even yet by loss,
softened by the edges of other memories:
A grey-feathered quill,
silent and finally
curved nib lying
like a blooded beak
upon darkened leather,
the sea-blue cup he favoured,
filled yet by half with black-bitter
concealed and forgotten atop a spill of dust-edged
His everyday pipe,
caught between split-spined
set with purpose
by a long-guttered candle.
Even his best walking stick,
upon its peg by the door,
(though I note the absence of the thrice-spun
cloak he had of his Da,
and the dust-ghost upon the night-stand
where once lived his mum’s water-scarred journal)
twisted thong worn near-restless-through.
Hard to see what, after all, is left.
Harder still to note that which
I bow my head and tidy the bits of him remaining,
and think upon the harvest of 1420,
the sweet-sad memory of it lying like a bridge
upon the Sea.