I was told he was gone by his son.
Remembering his frown, like a
ballast of railway line.
Firm as a cliff edge.
He was ex army. Bringing with him
When he came out he opened up a
Wiping away the used breaths on glass,
brushing away the dead leaves,
sweeping away the lost voices,
hoovering up dead skin
removing nightmares of wars he had known.
Gareth Culshaw lives in Wales. He has been published in various places across the UK and USA.