for Nicholas Battye 1950-2004
The last time I saw you is suddenly the last.
A message slipped me by the ether just before boarding, opened mid-flight.
Your flesh now meat is started on its slow fall to water, air and earth.
My love remains but what’s its object now?
I do not think your ghost can squeeze into this narrow cabin in the upper air, above Florida.
Are you at peace, poor traveller?