Passing Through Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Some people die in dirty forgotten bedsits
With a ring-wormed cat, eyeing them up like a chop

Others, take their leave on the motorway
Cause pile ups, tail backs
Dragging others with them

Some people die in the womb
Runners, poised on the blocks
Missing the starting shot

You left as a cherished guest
The glen spread out, a feast on a good table
The taste of your favourite poem
Fresh in your mouth

Passing through,
Now you've become the sky
The smoke from last year's leaves
That hint of sweetness in the cherry tree