What it has meant to lose you, is like a house with the doors suddenly blown open. The dogs, running into the yard, baying, ruffled by winds. Stepping out barefoot onto the frost of an unimaginable summer, where light slowly lifts each limber leaf like a swell of cellos, and the tender blue of night creeps away into the tiniest corners of the sky. Your death raises stars, floods buds, tosses trout in the weirs, runs in the sap and the blood and the fields.
Your glasses, your cufflinks, your wooden tools, adrift in a black winter river. All of Kent, the Medway, the High Weald, Sandwich, Gravesend, Crundale, washed away like ice in the racing tides. Winters full of stamping horses, fog, distant farms, trudging uphill, through snow, to where you know you must go. Your grass, where feet were placed, your ladder on each tree, your rising, your falling, your rising, your falling and rising breath, your rasp. Your slow walk away, humped as a hill in the distance while your face tipped back. Out from the cage of the ribs you went rising. Warm arms, sweet peas, honeysuckle, wilting around you. You closed the gate.
What is has meant to love you is to look back, still looking, look on, and not to wait.