There’s an odd word in Welsh,
missing someone you’ve never met
It’s funny how often I feel it when I think of you
fingers lightly brushing the leaves of overgrown thickets
in Kent, while the War raged
Salt spray mingling with your beard
as you watch seagulls and crabs knocking on doors
in the oldest of dances
I can hear your voice in the rustling of the grass
the gentle wind, your breath
A dandelion lifted up on your current
as you meditate on the intelligence
Where are you now, Alan?
and will we see you again?
You’d answer, does it matter?
And we’d all laugh
Until we meet, my friend,