My father, your brother, said
you looked like an Arabian prince.
Your dark hair, sharp eyes
There is a photo
of the two of you laughing in the garden
in North Avon Road
arms around each other's shoulders.
Sent home from the war
you settled in the back bedroom
with books on self improvement
until that deep sadness passed.
Practised the nature of calm with my father,
Stood on your head
to let thoughts move through
and out at last.
"The doctor said I had nervous dyspepsia."
You married late and had a daughter.
What others considered improbable sustained you.
When they died before you,
instead of dark despair,
what continued was love.