Low Flying Herons

Low Flying Herons

 

It’s not what

you’d call sunny

and it’s not even

Saturday either

but

suddenly I am in

the yard underneath

a sky strung out

with washing

and I am touching it

reverently as if

to bring you back

to life

by fingering the hems

of your favourite

trousers and slipping

my fingers into

your pockets which

contain no surprises

or keys

or money

or bubblegum

now

low flying herons

flap overhead

like wet sheets

all afternoon

and soon I wander

indoors

over disconsolate slug trails

and a hopscotch skeleton

to bake fairy cakes

for a birthday tea

or a funeral feast

whistling

I still miss you

like a half empty kettle

 

 

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