The last poem

Inside the old cottage
the candlelight had faded
it no longer caused
the highlights of grey
in his hair to glisten
Within its fire.
the last poem he would write.
flowed in the neat hand of his pen.
he seemed to finish it in a flourish
then without warning
his hand reached over his chest
his last words still
as softly spoken as ever.
he said its time
for me to go my love.
I grasped his hand to my breast
as he left me.
this night almost a year later
his writing desk untouched
I reach for his poem
and take it closer
to the flickering candle
to read once more
I wondered if he was somehow
sat with me in his chair
smiling his gentle reasuring face
or perhaps stood behind me
looking for my affirmation
of his poem.
a wind was blowing gently
and the unfurled buds
of the apple treee
tapped on the moonlit window,
as I read the last line
thank you for sharing
my dream my love.