Silence echoes in his house.
In the spaces between my childrens’ play
The shouts and squeals of silly games
His chair sits empty, quiet, still.
His voice is silenced in the end.
I knew it would happen, but still
I am surprised and slightly left adrift
Without knowing that his mind is there.
His story has been written.
I do not know if he would prefer
A chance to revise, rebuild, restore
But I can say that his life was enough
To know – his life was a tribute
To everything he believed in,
In success, in failure…