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.