This death’s a stone flung into a startled pond,
The edge I stand on doesn’t sense a ripple.
Yet, staring at the Nothing where it splashed
I see a picture of a wife bereft, shocked and in
turmoil. Memories surging up
changing as sunny waters change reflecting
when clouds pass casually, or a breeze
ruffles their vacant face
recall joint boyhood mischief
outings and squabbles and borrowings of pence
and sharing boys’ discoveries of girls
and Uncle proudly pictured in his Morris Cowley
then changing schools and school caps
and the gradual distancing
and the rare weak handshakes at funerals and weddings.
Now, sunken memories stirring, float to the top,
Death, with a stone, has churned the Past to Life.
The Morris Cowley was the first British-made popular car.
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