Newly dead, I’ll meet you at the steeple
two hundred foot above the wet pavement;
look for me, if looking is what we mean:
I’ll be staring into those remote nests,

ones lodged on plinths near the gargoyles,
where souls of swallows move like shadows
and house martins without a house build hearts.
I believe I’ll recognise you, pale, thin,

wearing the dark we laid you in.
We’ll hover apart at first, amused, frightened,
before we drift together and embrace,
all our intricacies odd as snowflakes.



Terry Jones