The End Poem by Max Catterwell

I came when the sun was low in the sky
I nestled among the dry bracken and moss
I waited till the full moon rose in the East
I floated up as smoke from a fire

My breath, if breath it was, threw odd broken
Shadows on the mossed rocks
My heart raced with expectation
My memory created weird illusions of an
Altered past
My time, I knew, had come

As I lingered (as others had done) by the pools
On the stagnant moor
As I waited for the spectre to appear
My fingers drew in knots an image of
Desperation
And finally, the memory was no more.