My mam and dad
made fun of death
like you do
when you don’t believe
it will happen to you.
They talked lightly of
“falling off the twig”
and “leaving the village”.
Now they are both dead:
they have fallen off the twig,
they have left the village.
What about you?
Do you feel the wind,
sometimes, shaking the tree,
blowing through its branches?
And have you yet glimpsed,
faintly, through the fog,
the last houses
at the edge of the village?
Pete Crowther
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/night-thoughts-3/