Wrapped up in gilet, scarf and cap he stands
across the road from me. I know he’s died
but I feel caught out, living in his flat.

Dodging the traffic, specs in hand, I cry,
Look, I’ve kept your glasses –
just changed the lenses.

He looks a little rueful, says he’s living
on Mont Blanc now – he needed fresher air
and an opportunity for skiing.

Yet here he is, translucent on my borders –
his gold knot cuff-links, those wrist-locks,
dangling heavy from my earlobes.

Winner of The Silver Wyvern, Poetry On The Lake, 2022
judged by Robert Seatter