Ah! And there it is: the slow collapse to rain.
I turn from the window, my tea now cold.
His irises clouded, skin a membrane.
Sheets: milk-white, hard, tight shroud him - jack-knifed, old.
Used to make me sit in his TV throne;
fed me marshmallows and paté on bread,
talked of strong women of Athens or Rome.
I turn to the glass: cars, wipers, bowed heads.
I touch our condensed breath. A drop balloons.
Outnumbered, it gorges, fattens, falls.
Later, when crocuses have come and gone,
his shed: tea bags, clear milk and overalls.
Hauntings of compost torn half-open, spill
onto crusted gloves and mouldering sill.
Robbie Frazer won first prize in the Brian Dempsey Memorial Prize competition in 2018.