and so about the afterlife

 

and so about the afterlife
I say to him, you see
my mum and I are standing at opposite ends, she
not able to imagine that we
who think and feel
– her voice just like frail hands against a heavy door –
might be no more
whereas I
well I struggle
even to believe that we are

so he says
it depends on our perception of time
then tells me about past holidays
when he was feeling sad
the silver sands of Morar
still dazzling white a corner of his soul
a magnificent bruise in his memory’s flesh

but I
am drifting away, floating
on a sea of darkness
I
thin as an old page on which the ink
swallowed the light

the world’s heartbeat is faint
which used to touch my cheek

with eyes that saw the sun
and ears burnt by the wind
with words pale and fickle
nothing
is easier to fathom
than nothingness

against obscurity
a garden only stands

today among the thorn
watchful blackbirds anew
were building a nest