Molly

In twos and three
of grey and black they hover,
faces raw from a brutal wind
that spins the squeaking vane
and scatters last year's leaves
among the graves.

She had been their lover,
confident and ever patient ear,
gone before they wanted to lose her,
before they realised they’d miss her,
feeling the space she left empty
except for her lingering perfume
and catch phrases.

All too aware of their own
dwindling mortality, her departure,
up in smoke she’d have said
with a crooked smile,
only underlined the inevitable.

Next week or month
it would be one of them
melding with the lowering clouds
blue into grey into the black cloak
but they shake of inescapable fate
and convene in the nearest pub
to raise a glass in her honour
she would expect nothing less.
to raise a glass in her honour
she would expect nothing less.