Poem: IN THE ABSENCE OF BRYN FORTEY

 

IN THE ABSENCE 

OF BRYN FORTEY 

(1937-2021)

lost days are made up of seasons 

each season a different country, 

evenings become dark now, with shivers of cold, 

steam flows from cafés out over sidewalks where 

passersby button themselves tighter into greatcoats, 

it’s time to incinerate a pile of dreams left over 

from previous seasons on a funeral pyre so that 

bright sparks of flame climb high through cloud 

beyond the sky to lodge in spaces between stars, 

where they can erupt into new constellations 

to confound the compilers of horoscopes 

and confuse those who claim 

to know of seasons to come