OLD COMRADES
Wearing the anguish
of old age
like some military honour,
he follows the cortege.
He remembers the
and how his thoughts
had turned to the mill-girl
two doors down.
Sometimes the dream looms
larger than his life.
A smile emerges, creasing
His well-worn mask –
his sorrow smothered
by her freely-imaged warmth.
Flossie her name was,
now she’s gone –
his death was living,
hers is snugly wrapped in wood.
He wears his grief with pride;
alone, misunderstood.
Malcolm Evison
