Phonecall

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.