One of mine –
Of ours perhaps –
Left last week;
But, on the old hill,
With sweeping views
Down to the port
Where big ships wait
To take us further,
Another – if its possible,
Drew closer.
While I’m reminded of a third
(Something special in that number,
That magic-wise company)
In a rich eastern temple
Where burn candles real
And a ghost sends me
Notes from a church.
Meanwhile our October
Becomes my November
And I watch my breaths
Quietly disappear.