Pausing at the door, I ponder my warning: He won't recognize you As the reluctant nurse, This summer morning, Grips the door-knob, Ushers me through. A figure on a bed, The skull turned sideways, Hello. You are privileged you know - He speaks the language Of a man I knew Some years ago. Eyes stray to the window, Then to my face: What are you doing now? I wonder why he asks. His mind Assumes the daily tasks Of a world he leaves behind. I admire his tired tenacity, The strong

Douglas was dead. He died painfully, So she was told, And what was it to her, His death? Why Think of it so often? He was short, intense, His narrow head Twitched like a bird's When he talked With a slight smile, As though he heard A voice within, a truth, And what remained without Did not concern him. Few would mourn a friend. He was too far off, A man respected, Envied for his talents, His slight figure Seemed to vibrate In his large green jacket, Baggy, grey trousers, And

Unscrolling the thumb-marked photo, I hold down each reluctant end, Remember the swivelling camera, Astraddle in the old school yard, The shabby man beneath the hood Who slow-panned each September The elevated Fourth and Fifth, Prefects sitting with masters, gowned, A smirking Third Form perched behind, New boys cross-legged on the ground. Among them my brother, head-cocked, Pale, wearing his new school blazer, Behind - what was his name? - the lad Whose father’s trade in fry

On a late October day, He set back the kitchen clock, Sat and took stock Of what was to happen. Soon he entered the time In which needs continued But no one came. If one reached out, The other retreated, Repelled by nature’s grip On a body not yet old, Yet young no longer. What consolations could the future hold? He considered Michael Whose vision tunnelled As his mind expanded Over the past, the dead, The lonely and the lovely Men and women, Dawn coming up Over Darjeeling Fi