Passing (Poetry)

Why the small persistant ache of loss? —
I hardly knew her, hardly said two words
except in passing — years of living close
with just a wall between and random noise
filtering through insubstantial brick —
music, voices, sudden bursts of sound
that drew attention, faded, rumbled low —
but now a silence floods from vacant rooms.

I could not help but speculate and try
to think when I last saw her fuchsia coat
unmistakeable— the colour bright
as Florida retirement — bold with age
and independance flying its own flag —
so often seen but absent now for days
and when the sombre band of visitors
drew up outside — I watched them load the van.

They cleared her flat — I heard them through the wall
the tides of busy movement ebbed and flowed
and down the path they carried what was left —
piled her life like shopping on the grass
in carriers — thin plastic gaping wide
and all her things unneeded now inside —
hand to hand, removed her piece by piece —
and so I witnessed echoes of her death.

So near to being strangers but that wall
we shared for twenty years had forced a link —
a sympathy I hadn’t known was there
murmuring condolences, in shock
how swiftly life’s few props are packed away —
removed like sets from some long-running play —
performance done, the curtains taken down —
her shadow passing, homeless once again.