no longer allow me any new hypotheses,
he is fixed in a pastiche of memories and
returning images, sparked randomly
from the flint walls that surround.
A little more understanding, possibly,
though now I am the age he was,
the Elder he will always be.
His first passing was sad but accepted,
his final passing, through me now looms,
and will largely go unnoticed;
a world extinguished
by the death of a memory.
Neither monument, nor tombstone, nor plaque
can contain his spirit, and
just a few blackened words,
— Hiroshima moment of passing —
are left behind, as a burnt after-image,
on this page.
©Copyright Niall OConnor 2014