|(Jeff Buckley, singer, drowned 1997)|
clothes, into the river:
You could stay young and strong for ever
In all their minds, although they knew
The Mississippi tug chugged through.
The soar of voice, the race of blood
Could not stop darkness or the mud.
The plane dropped low. Your drummer spat
At clouded light, "Death is like that."
He watched the helicopters pound,
Beams cut, men shout, but nothing found.
"So sorry-" toned the phone to space,
The Southern police. Her name was Grace.
But still he prowls the polished floor
You loved, he had not seen before,
You could walk, whistling, through the door.
He saw the bank. It was not wide.
He knows you reached the other side.
He heard you reach the other side.
If you've any comment on this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be pleased to hear from you.