His weather 

His weather

He wouldn’t have gone

  in that hot spell

That was his weather

Remember him

  sat sunning

    out back of the

   two-up two-down

We got used to him

  lying in the front room

    with tubes beside the fruit bowl

He could hear us they said

We forgot our normal voices

  whispered round him hushed

    flustered and budged up

We listened for his quiet breath

  and sweated

When he heard the rain

      he went

originally published in Fenland Poetry Journal, Autumn 2019