To my brother Mathew

The brown horse

A hole in the heart is hard to fill,

Sometimes we just gaze at the window sill,

Or look blankly at an empty till,

Or even grow a garden full of dill.

Yet the empty plate, the quiet sound,

The lonely dog lying on the ground.

How can we move on?

When it feels like he is still around?

The blown out candle, the broken clock,

Paused forever in mid tock.

The final page of a bestselling novel,

The credits roll, the movies over.

A soccer ball sitting still, a bicycle against the fence,

A rusted car in the yard, it all makes very little sense.

The brown horse stands at the gate,

Quietly waiting for his mate.

A cat's disdain momentarily broken,

A father's words haltingly spoken,

A lovers dreams cruelly shattered,

A mother's 'strength wearily battered,

A brother's sword still in its scabbard,

He could not fight when it really mattered.

The wickets fall, this race is lost,

No one wanted to pay this cost.

The brown horse stands at the gate,

Quietly waiting for his mate.

We sit and wish upon a star,

And contemplate in our car,

Where is he now? Near or far?

Is wanting him back so bizarre?

A single sock, lying all forlorn,

A stuffed goat whose heart is torn.

One set of footprints on the beach,

It feels like he is just out of reach.

The brown horse stands at the gate,

Quietly waiting for his mate.

He alone has no doubt,

He knows all he needs to do is wait.