Saturday, June 14, 2014


She washes out his bowl,
clears away all his little things,
with indecent haste.
Too soon -

but she couldn't bear to see them
in the morning,
when she comes out to get breakfast
and his sweet face is missing.

His rush to talk and cuddle,
as pleased to see her as she is to see him,
gone - like the slam of the front door
in a gust of wind.

Today she plants a tree in the garden,
heavy with lace leaves and cream flowers,
pansies and polyanthus around the base.

The earth breathes in and holds
his soft, perfect shape in its dark arms.


Post a Comment

<< Home