Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

We started on almost the same day.
She the bright young thing
we all once were
when newly graduated and stamped suitable.
Me at that indeterminate point of chronology –
mid-thirties,
old to the young set,
insufficiently silvered for the established.

Not quite belonging, not quite excluded
I occupied the space of ambiguity.
Favour seldom fell to the in between.
The mezzazine view. An uncensored peephole.

She diffused through all the boundaries
Young.
Pretty.
Popular.
No membrane was impermeable to her.

As a workplace it was considered prestigious
this we were repeatedly told
her department rated more highly than mine.
Quiet, courteous, an endearing trace of shyness
she seemed well balanced, sensible and kind.

Three years pass
still not at the midpoint of her 20’s
whip crack tongue
regularly flicks service staff.
She now belongs. There is no need for impersonation.

Fistfuls of light
thrown by sombre trees
strike unlikely sentinels –
weathered soft toys,
bleached wooden trains,
threadbare windmill,
scruffy, gentle markers, softening brutal inscriptions.

Dearly missed,
Aged –
16 hours,
two days,
three weeks.
five months.
Kate, Anna, Kyle, Melanie
never progressed to surname
will never require differentiation.

School remains unknown
as does inequality
and betrayal.
Innocence and loss
sway quietly together
grief’s slow waltz
painful and sweet.

When melancholy won
or luck felt picked upon
I came here,
perspective –
grief, what could be more?
Motivation was selfish
balm, my loss lessened by comparison
a form of optimism
the difference between being destitute and
almost destitute
a degree of betterment.

Now, coming to terms has accepted
moving on goes back, often – for them.

We’d been school friends,
good friends when we were younger,
had liked the same books, games and people.
The high school years saw a divergence of interests
a dilution of closeness
but still talked regularly –
speaking of our football teams
opinions of teachers
and prospects with girls.

No topic was taboo, except his brother,
who was bigger and stronger and beat me up once.

His mother died two years after high school
mine saw the notice and told me.
I attended her service thinking it appropriate,
a gesture he would appreciate.
He did.
His brother was there of course
bearded and dressed in black, but
not funeral black.
I went to speak to him – to offer sympathy
before I could extend my hand, he turned away.