These are cold rooms, now. All the talk is gone,
the well-known voice, familiar stories – all
fast fading now and soon beyond recall.
We sat here long and often, now we go
through his possessions that, without the flow
of his comment, have lost all life, have done,
have lost identity – what's sadder than
a car boot full of stuff once good and true,
now grey, discarded, no more use to you
than junk – until we find among the clothes
a man's long shirt, embroidered, and all those
old stories straightway spring to life again.