Four-thirty. A grey light.
You awake with a groan.
You do not know where you are.
You are half-blind.
You live in shadows
These days, you barely exist.
I have glimpsed your world
Charred leaves blowing in the wind
An old album, pages torn out.
As you sit for hours
The days and nights blur
Years go by. Dark and light.
Stories and friends.
And hopefulness in small things
These were the things of your wife.
Crosswords, the Telegraph
Your moods, your needs.
She was your life.
