rocking chair


Through the wall I hear you move,

feet padding across

the floor,

avoiding the toys left out of boxes.

You appear at my door

nightmare hair matted on your forehead.

My arms will hold you now as then,

when your soft fontanel throbbed

in those endless sterile

nights of pacing

and the creak of the old rocking chair.


During daylight hours you look at me like I was made of stone,

As if I was permanent

like this island.


Maybe you’ll remember these moments,

I can’t say you will,

but I hope.


All I know is we live and so

we die.




old sofa

the pet
cat, dead.


breezy Autumn piers

rainy football matches Saturday & photographs

taped in scrapbooks

with dusty corners.

These I leave to you.


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