A holiday death

Timely

this is the death of the language 

I read Darwish while sipping hot Nescafe 

that bleeds over my notebook, coffee smeared, milk- frothed 

over the counter where she used to sit 

keep a lookout on  who stays, who leaves

it is beyond me; halls decked with last year's holly

what makes these blossoms shrink

like old age before death

an idea, a body, a leave, we all shrink

but no one thinks of the shadows

when the are standing in the sunshine

there is a dimmed light on the window today;

that the bulbs turned lighter, there are things

we bought together, old books, T-shirts, candles

flammables among your death and the cry of birth

this Christmas, you take it forward

while I sit in the car listening to the downpour 

a belief of the death of people and their birth

the death of the language in me, 

the death of love, an end, and its seemingly impossible rebirth