By Richard MurphyHer voice is a mist on the phoneFar away and precariousAs a tree whose roots clingTo rocks overhanging a cliffAs she threatens to hang up.Years pass into dustWith drills, hammers and sawsRemodelling an old houseWhose walls of silenceKeep a granite hold on my loss.Now that she’ll never intrudeOn my rock garden concordFar away through a static mistI hear in her voiceEndless silence
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