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when I think

when i think
in the style of an old lament


when i think of
the friends
the few i have
that touch a distant
part of me where
the mystery of self
a flicker amongst
flickers in a vastness
is rolled back
a little
like a walk out along
a low-tide shore
when i think of
these friends
a hand across your
shoulder to lift
the yoke a little
more than enough
those friends you
sit back against like
that place where
trunk meets branch
with your feet
dangling clear of
the rip below
when i think of
these friends, death
pushing their face
into awful accident
or breaking them
down on the
bedrock of pain
clumsily slowly
as if it’s never done
the job before
when i think of
my friends, death
with its brand new
knife at their backs
i would weep
when i think of
the friends the
few i still

september 2012
howick domain

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