Time spots the mirror and the photograph,
creates the marks and also wipes them away.
A silver moon statue, mug of half-n-half;
a much loved profile, a rather well known laugh
tapers and stills. Dead flowers in a bouquet
make their way to the river piled on the hearse
and a certain star shaped void’s our universe.
What will patch it up, make good the damage -
no-one has a clue, no-one takes a guess
the wise men proclaim so, all the poets pledge
wait for the ones to come, they’ll be cutting edge;
but now’s a gun salute, now’s a grieving mess
for every star must fall, even stars must fall.
The universe must shrink to a star shaped hole.