Poems by Tim Jones

She fell away from the war,
from building Rolls Royce engines,

from the bank and its simultaneous
wedding basket and farewell.

From the shower head and the shower walls
she fell away.

She fell away from the atrium,
from the ventricles, from blood and breath and pulse.

She fell away from the post-war migration,
from miles never re-crossed

for fear she could not make herself return.
From streets as wide as years, she fell away.

She fell away from her daughter and her son.
From rotary phones and Rogernomics,

from Princess Diana and the Berlin Wall,
from crumbling certainties, she fell away.

She fell away from the ceiling,
from the yellow, unflattering light,

from the hospital that held her last two weeks.
From doctors and from nurses, she fell away.

From the casket and her husband,
from a house as cold as comfort,

from the mumbling of the preacher,
from the shuffling of her mourners,

she fell away to ash and memory.
Through the ragged net of words,

down the telescope of years,
she fell away.