Death. Builds. Men. Poem by Alistair Plint

A boy growing up
hasn't quite done it
before he's held the
hand of a dying man
Having calculated how
firm the grip should be;
knuckles a thermometer
for ice-cold-cheeks

No paternal instinct
quite snuck in
prior to counting
the whispers
between surrendering
breaths having stood
strong and tall
In the crying of a
heart machine's final call

A writer has not quite
produced poetry
until the poem of death
is from a lost life
that is real
The spirit he writes of
from his closest and dearest
lives in the depth
like a daily-ordeal




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