She treads through the aisles
dragging her cart and feet.
She mumbles and mutters
but mostly she shouts.
She knows he’s been here.
She knows he’ll be back.

Aherne, Robartes, they’re gone,
their minds so set on symbols and moons.
(Never saw the bus coming.)
She nods and sighs, grips tight on her coat
(his coat, he made it for her
a long time ago)
as she steps, back into the cold,
a smile cracks her wrinkle-aged mask.

She’s the last of them all.
Even Aengus, who visited her dreams,
has wandered off, way beyond the veil.
Yet she smiles, and tugs at her coat.
She outlasted them all:
the bishop, the vicar, the dancers,
even him, with his coat!
She grins and laughs
and laughs and coughs.
Even him, with his coat.

Sadly she looks
at the cold winter’s road
and she treads through the streets
dragging cart and feet
but softly, because she knows
they still are his dreams.