I dragged my blue-grey fingers

over the name you were buried with,

black letters chiselled into pale cold stone

sunk in wet unkempt grass, marking the spot

where you lay alone with your dreams

in death, just as you did in life.

I was one of the lonely people, Eleanor,

you never saw or heard me

you never listened when I tried to help.

I was always there, Eleanor,

but to you I was invisible, I had no voice

I didn’t exist in your world.

They say, nobody went to your funeral

but I did, I leaned against a distant silver birch

and watched Father McKenzie,

he wore his unpressed funeral face

the one he stored with the sombre robes.

He slammed soil onto your coffin,

he was there Eleanor, but he didn’t care.