Afterlife

When all my entanglements of matter

rework themselves, molecules twist

into sea wrack, kapok, coati mundi

or are blown in the interstellar winds

into the space between things,

they may, before the universe declines,

be split into their atoms, be swirled

into a new, though never new, gas cloud,

be recombined into another star.

Maybe just a hydrogen or two I borrowed

for a flick of time, will be there, the suns

and moons, once deep in my electrolytes,

may still mimic the system they left.

They saw the start, will be part of how it ends.

Simon Williams is a poet from Devon. He tweets @GreatBigBadger