The Wood Pigeon

Death visits the garden.

Lying on your side 

I wish I could bring it 

Faster, easier. Kinder.

But all I can do, 

Is move you 

Out of the way of the wind. 

And let it take you

When it wishes. 

As it does. 

“I hope you didn’t touch it”

• “The avian flu” - 

Fuck. 

I didn’t even think about that 

I think to myself but don’t say it. 

“I used kitchen towels”  -  

Because you needed protection, 

A pillow, some softness for the end.

Wondering if you knew I was 

Trying to make you comfortable.

We leave the house,

But the weather has other plans

A short walk, contemplating frailty.

Fixated on time. On living. 

On loss. 

On what to do with my own life.

When we return you’re gone

Gone as in, your tiny chest 

Is no longer heaving with effort. 

I want to cry uncontrollably but,

Of course. I don’t, I won’t. 

I’ll leave that for the shower, 

Or the most awkward moment 

Possible when I’m working. 

And it just comes.

An avalanche sweeping through.

At the dentist. 

When I can blame it on fear or pain.

Though neither are even close to 

As terrifying. 

As all this. 

All this.