At the grave of a broadcaster

except
since air waves do
not confess
location, where
you lie is
placeless;
not that it matters
precisely
where we relinquish
this alchemist’s
juggling set we
call the body;
the radio
distant,
dispassionate,
informed me that
part of the fine
weave of my
known world had
snagged and parted;
a fleeting
sorrow
passed over me as
shadows over
field and hill
happen on
even the most
facile day
treacherous
with smiling clouds, that
your fastidious,
courtly voice, dredged
with the spice of wit, was,
at last, mute;
at least in the
ordinary, remarkable
way that one
heart speaks
to another;
death’s calm which
soothes every
fractious pulse will
not, with you, have
the last say, since
like some digital
purgatory, your
shade will
still whisper to
our O so
very english ears.