Today I remembered the bugle’s plaintive notes
somewhere near the bungalow, from across the road
every day at sunset. Some high official lived close -
his flags were raised and lowered as the bugle played.
It calms things down a bit to get into childhood,
to thumb old music - of bagpipes and Irish flutes,
this time demands a retreat into those tunes and books,
those long ago textures when she moored my decades.
Verses the world over, the texts have the same sting
all that’s born must die, there’s no point in suffering -
as if it’s an option, as if grief’s a reset.
There’s no preparation, no going out of mind,
no way to carry forward or leave it behind,
no knowing if memories will help or how to forget.