Death Poem Ramble

I cam't remember winter, or autumn.
Stranded in these near-deep summer days,
only the seagulls are real.
Relatives I have not seen for decades die,
an uncle described by the Kidderminster
Shuttle as a 'Lovable rogue', and an aunt,
the last time I saw over the summer of
1994 (I had bought the album 'Ceremony of
Opposites' by Samael, though I can't
remember in which town.)

It makes me think of March, and that phone call
in Hastings, telling us Flo had died.
A ramshackle market on a white-windy day.
Death is a spider, or a tiger, and I try to
watch the television in a room where, behind
the sofa, something creeps.
Dried out Brighton and songs I've not heard
since the light blue autumn of 1997.
There is sleep and work and sleep.
A plastic insect toy sits on a shelf of

unsafe books and ignores a plastic elephant
I found by the sea.