A little loose. Like a soft toy
sewn on where it’s lost it’s stuffing.
Magpies showing
zero respect
You sketched our field
with straight line speed.
Sent my blood coursing,
bounding. The hearts’ pounding
now stopped. In a beat.
A car I think.
A scrape in the verge.
Your final form neverlasting.
All this at Easter. No resurrection.
No headstone. No graveside grieving.
But a single tulip, this reedy
stem outstripping the long grass to
a mouth wide open.
Screaming.
Before the petals
dropped.
And the black and white leaves fell from the lung trees
clacking and hopping.
The lung trees over the rhubarb patch at the bottom of our garden.
Training company boss by day. Poet and a whole heap of other things by night. Plus the son of a mother who was killed in a care home while living with dementia.
View all posts by Richard
