We go together
to Wales,
in search of a
long dead brother.
A deathbed clue,
pointing to St Woolos.
Footsteps softly search.
Our formal dance prints
the wild lawns.
Just one or two
wooden crosses.
All that's left, a meadow
of dead children.
Lost memories
of dead parents.
The once removed love
of brothers and sisters,
you never knew.
Too young to
have lived a life,
to have held a stone.
Over sixty years
since you left.
Once you had a cross,
a wooden name.
That showed where
you slept in the
worm's dark earth.
In the missed decades
A slow rot, a paucity
of love.
I know you're there Patrick.
Somewhere under my feet
those little bones.
All that’s left
of my brother.
© Dai Fry 29th May 2020.