Ghosted

In memory of Colin Robertson 

Running with a slim fragment of your ghost
You, at 24, jog easily as I puff alongside
Then 20, now just turned 40.
You’ll not see me though, not this time.
You’ve gone, ploughed out of existence by a truck
Just before your 40th birthday, four years back.
Running with a slim fragment of your ghost,
Here, on the same path, with the same trees,
Still observing, still watching over me;
I conjure up your brown eyes,
Handsome jaw, your furrowed brow and stunning smile,
I admire your arms, cycling strong,
That perfect, toned muscle structure
That did nothing to keep you alive, in the end.
I felt pathetic trying to keep up.
But you were kind, taking our home for the night
On your back; stopping to turn and encourage me.
That was one of the best of days
When your strange darknesses lifted
To give you some peace.
I miss you, here, now.
As your voice, telling stories,
Murmurs through the pine trees
And the red squirrels chatter overhead.