My brain has turned to ash, and yes,
My mouth is dust,
And love is grief, and death is
But the loss of trust;
While life is paupered, futures turn,
Feed on the past,
And dwell on words you might have…
If I’d only asked!

No point to dwell again, but yet
I must, I will;
Was there some hint, a glimpse perhaps
You’d long distilled,
Was I so blind, insensible
And dead to grief
That death could snatch you carelessly,
Some petty thief.

Perspectives shift, horizons narrow,
Drift my sand,
Your loss has marked my end, that shallow
Sleight of man,
What now remains of you, I am
Though poor in creed,
For what you were was love, and this
I’ve lost indeed.

David Lewis Paget