Sunday, October 2, 2016


One afternoon, long after, I call her.
I imagine the phone’s ring-tone
streaming through the air
of her sitting room;

above her writing desk,
wallets of holiday photos,
saucer of earrings,
a broken watch.

And now full sail over the carpet,
leaving behind
a mess of Sunday papers,
empty wine bottle on the couch.

Into the hall,
above floor-boards,
raincoat on the banister,
umbrella fallen onto the first step.

To the landing,
boxes of books,
the standard lamp forever
on its way to the bin.

My calling her: smoke
curling in a square of sunlight,
a cloud of silver smidgens
with nowhere to go.

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