One day, my fellow

occupant of our cell,

you’ll cease to follow

in my steps, to tell


me, looking through

our single window,

about whatever view

you’ve chosen for the day.


Somehow, absurdly,

I’d foreseen collapse,

my deserted body,

our almost rhyming corpse,


and that you might walk away

jauntily singing

to eternity. But, on the day,

you only whisper, ‘I’m moving


to another cell, my dear.

I’m sorry that we’re losing

touch. The last sound you’ll hear

will be the door closing.’