There is no journey to trace
No perfume to smell
No food to taste
No song to play
No sun or wind with its hand on my face
Just the whole of missing
To attend to

There it is in that poem, Sky
By Szymborksa (who’s left us too, did you know?)
The one you gave us to read at your funeral
It would take her endless sky
Her moon and stars
Her planets and all their deputies
To fill the hole (with room to spare)
You left us with

But today
There’s no such work to be done
No shifting or heaving
No map to chart
No special pleading
There’s just the whole of missing
To attend to