Late Night

When the moon is up

your sleepless voice wafts from

the little churchyard

I turn away

from the cold sheets to find

your warm letter lying still

beside me

the last one you sent

that April before

you died

and after those years

I opened the envelope again

and your sleepless voice

fell out

and burst into life

from the cold earth

blooming like Dafidils in the spring

to remind me of how you were

so full of life when I

pressed a Daffodil in your book