by ​Andrew Senior

I

Light reflected
was only sun, even clouded. 	

Seen, and not seen, 
mirrored in cornea on faded bed. 

A quiet dying. 
The sheets when vacated 

were folded neatly away.
Dust ascended 

to the shaded bulb 
and in the corner 

carpet drew down knees and God 
raised hands 

and, in perpetual silence, 
the departing light 

pierced us all.

II

Laid out and named 
in uneven letters pushed into 

a peg letter board.
Low light lessened

the unnatural assault.
Mute communion 

behind frosted glass and semi turned 
venetian blind.

Waxen, bloodless, 
certified, rested beneath 

a clock which did not tick. 
Hands gliding the time, 

the day empty of her. 

III

Black limousine fought the hill.
They waited

in patient rows and at the end 
did not stand

until we stood,
respectful 

of our loss. 	
You knew us all, 

the common thread. 
Your absence simply 

made no sense. 

IV 

The sequence of ending
faded to

inner silence.
Loosened and scattered 

we became, yet the heart 
grieves unscripted, 

sets a flame, 
reignites her room, 

home, memorial; 
the places we gathered

in hesitant, vital connection.

---

Andrew Senior is a writer of poetry and short literary and speculative fiction, based in Sheffield, UK. His work has been published in various places, including Ekstasis, Fathom and Story Warren.