I am here,
but he whom was me has gone
from all my memory
but for these pages.
Deep, deeper, deep down inside
the dim shadow of that spark hides.
A spark once warmed by spring and fuelled by summer,
languishes in this damp cool greyness.
I am not unhappy, but I am not on fire,
and the annual ritual of shining forth
is squeezed between two clouds,
one that rains words on this page
and the other that shies from big skies.