Death at Newlands
The door's discreetly closed. The blinds are drawn.
Outside, the day is getting into gear.
The sun is up, the dew is on the lawn,
and breakfast's on the way ... but not in here.
And now we fear no more the early call,
the distant siren. Safe from further harm,
on this bare bed he lies, beyond recall.
It's him and it is not: composed, still warm.
All through these last declining months we've seen
his preparations for the trip begin.
He had to go, and though he wasn't keen
he's slipped away now, shed this sallow skin,
and like a swimmer, left the clothes he wore
carefully laid out here on the shore.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, David Callin would
be pleased to hear them.