wordswithpixwithwords
Last Breathpoetry&fotography&poetry
In quite a startling natural way
my father died.
He was asleep and just
stopped
breathing.
Stopped.
We were all there.
Gathered like participants in
a bizarre celebration
Hands held together.
A silent clarity descended.
Which was all too soon
swept away on a tide of talk,
people, tea
and other peoples
snapshots,
falling like leaves
from the copper beech.
