On 21st December, 1873, Horace Moule was staying with his brother, Charles Moule. When he heard a strange noise in an adjoining room, Charles discovered that Horace had slashed his windpipe with a razor. He was covered in blood but conscious and was able to utter his last words "Easy to die. Love to my mother."

Written two days before sepsis

The sting of the wind
On this cold spring day
Reminds me of my
Ancestors who rode
This same wind
As they trudged to work
On early shift.

This connection, now, is
Deep, sunk in the blood,
In all that I mean
When I say these words
In tones that rhyme..

Words that would’ve
Carried meaning still
In those cold, hungry days
When this same old
Northern sky
Still pleased the eye of
Those infected with
The old disease,

Of love.

And, in this frail copse of tender green

Glimmering with dappled sunlight,

Sunlight casting strange, wild shadows over me
Over scattered poplar trees,
And all over hawthorn bushes

And the delicate flowers of daisies

and of grass

Nothing lasts.

In this place and time
A mottled moment’s respite
Is offered me
As I watch these birds
Swing high into the grey ghost-ridden
Sky.

And, then, just for that
Moment
I am flying in that sky

The short journey to eternity.