A light as of axe-handles
swinging through fogbound scrub. Touch
wood. "This is the last
time you will see all this. This is
the last thing you will see,"
the stranger at my side, no stranger, whispers.

I come with empty pockets
to the boatshed at the end of
the ramp, the river's breath stilled to a slow cloud beneath me.
And wait. And stand waiting.

Close by, either
behind or close ahead,
damped in the dampened air,
music. "This is
the last thing you will hear," the stranger
whispers. His last word.

I stand and listen.
Silence
approaches. A silence approaching music.