Brother, I, am the only memory that holds you now. And I hold you. Daily, everly, evergreenly, like the pines that named the cottage, pine, and its other meaning. I do hold you.

Brother, where did you go? Your heat, and your existing? Was it dissipated in a moment – absorbed – your leaving simply merging with trees and soil and stars and a hare’s breath on an April moorland?

Here. You are here. Ever here – in here. When all I have to hold for any, is a monochrome of a boy. A boy. I hold you.

And brother, what material we shared, I passed, and in other lives, a part of you will carry on when I stop remembering.

And then it will be settled, like a coloured strata, fixed. We shall be a stripe in rock – our matter, for all it matters, trapped with other stuff, for geologists, or perpetuity of a kind.

Brother, you gave me a flame in our last together – a flame like an Olympic torch or wax taper – tapering off to flickering dreamlands.

Brother, fox or hare, only half believing in your leaving, I do hold you.

All That Was

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