Like A Torn Manuscript
it’s raining like someone died.
not that I’ve ever been to a funeral
where it rained, although there was
that cold one with wind blowing
straight off the frozen Søby Fjord.
roses thrown on his grave, froze.
that fjord was still frozen when we
returned. same church. same grave.
his wife died 2-months after him.
or the one with autumn colours,
a day sunny as wind chimes, but
it was a slaughter of emotion, or
there was the tranquil one that we
watched behind covid-safe windows.
a burnt sky. curtained nothingness.
and then there was the one at night.
darkness. moonlight and stars, and
earth reclaiming her borrowed time.
like a torn manuscript.