Sport 16: Autumn 1996
Whenever I feel a cold rain on my cheeks
And look from a place of shelter at the harbour,
Its surface poisoned by a winter twilight,
I think of a man who died.
I recall his life and what he was studying
When he turned a rifle around to face himself,
Put the small black hole of its muzzle in his mouth
And contrived a way to fire.
I remember a book he owned and a room he had
And sleet in spates against the grey window
On a Sunday when the gloom between us darkened
Till I could not see his face.