Listen to me read this poem

I remember mad joy, seeing the sulphur lights
bloom one by one on his hearse, that he was
coming back to us again, our little boy...

In snow-flake silence of the December dawn
in the empty chapel we reached out to him,
but only seemed to push him down.
Deus ex-machina hummed assent; flame
annealed him, made a memorial -
a curb like that which killed him.

He's been alone so long, so far away, his Autumn
our Spring; his cold night our warm day,
but the bulbs you planted bloom, you say,
and year upon year brave crocus will bring
their solace from that artless earth.

- from Stirring Stuff (1993)