And just like that

he was gone.

Up in the Oxford smoke

on a Monday mourn.

And that’s when Joy

came and sat with Sorrow.

She knew he was taken

to spare him from the morrow.

His mind had observed his body slowly fail

as strong arms hugged life and battled the frail.

Undignified fall after undignified fall,

the cruel disease, it took it all.

And towards the end, when there was little left,

it stole his words. Then his final breath.

But he hadn’t really gone.

He’d just thrown off his coat,

hopped on a bike and was cycling home,

waving and smiling at those he’d meet,

as he flew round corners towards Henley Street.

You see, he heard they were having a party for him.

And there’d be cake and quiche and rhubarb gin.

There’d be family and friends from far and wide

who’d raise a glass and laugh and cry.

And he wanted them to know that he’d be there too,

silently hugging them, just out of view.

Thanking each one, but not aloud

as he made his way through the gathered crowd.

Some could feel him drawing near,

bringing love to those he held so dear.

Wife, brother, son-in-law, daughter.

Precious grandchildren from across the water.

Old friends, new friends, neighbours and more

from healthier and happier times of yore.

(And those in his heart who couldn’t be there,

he knew, deep down, did really care.)

And then, when all the guests had gone,

he grabbed a sweet treat and danced down the lawn.

He skipped up the ramp that led to “the shed”,

waltzed through the door and bounced on the bed.

He picked out a film and cranked up the projector.

(Cultured in life, now a cultured spectre.)

Then he kicked up his feet – everything felt so light.

And thought tomorrow he might fly a kite.

He could prune the fig tree another day.

Now he was free. Now he could play.