My Santiago

Help - less

The phone has rung, We – doing other things - have missed the call.

It goes to message bank.

We access it, Much later at night.

The message is dimmed, The voice plaintive; But nighttime brings up ghosts of the past, And we recognise it.

From another decade of friendships in another town, Another state, Another life.

When we were immortal, And life held no fears.

But the timbre has changed.

There is loss, There is pain, There is recognition of what is impossible to regain. Most of all there is a plea, A cry for help, To be allowed to simply see past the horizon, Past the sea of buffeting waves.

It frightens, Anguishes me.

It is our friend, Though time has passed, Who is confused, Does not want (her life) To last.