Low Flying Herons

Low Flying Herons


It’s not what

you’d call sunny

and it’s not even

Saturday either


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


low flying herons

flap overhead

like wet sheets

all afternoon

and soon I wander


over disconsolate slug trails

and a hopscotch skeleton

to bake fairy cakes

for a birthday tea

or a funeral feast


I still miss you

like a half empty kettle



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