Twenty years gone, I find you occasionally
In long-untouched notebooks or my sister’s face.
And I suppose you’ll linger until we are all come
To meet you at the far edge of life.
At which point you will head off, following
The ones you loved and loved you while we wait
To greet the ones we’ve left behind, laughing
At their fears, losses and nervousnesses.
Oh, wouldn’t it be a fine thing, an afterlife?
When the whole joke was revealed and our heads
Could rest easy every night and we could wake
Without this stiffness in the bones, of the spirit.
If you have any comments on this poem, Wynn Wheldon would be
pleased to hear from you.