Prospects There isn't much that can be said now he's finished, over, dead. Perhaps a flimsy paragraph is fitting as an epitaph, a word or two beside the grave, mutterings of being brave to children as they clutch a flower. It's complete in half an hour. We walk away for cakes and tea, remembrances, sympathy, anecdotes about the way he was before the thudding clay reclaimed the hair, the bone, the skin he kept his understanding in. Now every time we think about the silenced laughter leaking out to fertilise the wormy soil he's laid in, so our senses coil with knowing where he's gone so we will go, finished, over, free.