I remember how he wrote
The flourish in his pen
Letters joined like a river
with their meaning remote
I can smell his smoke
With clouds stinking a cowl
The ash flickered sun about his neck
Draped over him like a cloak
But I can't see his face
Just his cold eyes
The old smile is missing
Paused in the past place
I can't say I regret
I just find it curious
The things we hold onto
And the things we forget
-o0o-
Sent via my BlackBerry from Vodacom - let your email find you!
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