Apparently he died alone.

The year which had taken greats and the loved,

by its own admission, Time had murdered

them all without malice,

with charm and pity, sad

for the sadness Time had caused

as it placed a hand over the faces

and blew out their waxen candles

one last time, celebrated, wailing

and tears, celebrity bringing its own

terminal end with a semblance of togetherness.

Yet he died alone, in a doorway,

February cold his warmth

as he shut his eyes and huddled closer,

dirty ragged clothes stepped over

by new dress, handbags drawn, shoes polished,

he died alone, heavy breath turned shallow,

on the streets of Britain, twenty first century,

he died alone, no camera’s, no final words

of wisdom captured for all time,

the Minister’s job done well,

reducing the ranks,

apparently he died alone.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016