EVERY LOSS

Every loss, every loss

erodes the intervening gloss

of built-up lacquer layers

of life over the last loss,

last year’s,

yesterday’s loss.

Every place, each

and every place

I visit is redolent

with what’s been, where

I’ve been before, and lost.

He was here, he was there,

but now is not. Somehow

the fishing image

has the most power

to resurrect the hour

of lost intimacy.

Emptying his garage

as I did last week

of rubbish, failed electric

motors, mowers

all speak of lost power

and life,

like his wife,

I suppose.

Every pleasant sad event

catches, old smells,

touch of things, tells

of what were or seemed to be

but maybe never were,

or will be,

loss without end.

Amen.

14 November 1989