The pinch of winter on the breeze
The fox as it trots across our road
You stand at our gate
Your eyes hollow; you wait
I will not be there

By the door, your raw fingers
Whitened by cold light
The last shaft of sun
The latch on the gate, still undone
I am not there

You asked, last to leave,
How I fared, stared past strangers
Paused, took in everything
Heard, in darkening light, the birds sing
I was not there