I think Grandpa knew what dying is
Would he have understood as a child
how it goes, what it means?
Unfortunately, he was unable to explain it to me

He slipped away, slowly quickly

In Rouen, I saw a painting
with yellow light: two boys
in a boat, a candle at their feet

cut lame and bandaged
Their story has become an image
of dying: the crossing

the mind loses its sharpness
volatilises in mists over the water
It is romance, there is no boatman
punting, but there is an other side