Glove
My stubby maroon glove spent a chill night
on the velvet ridge of Clent Hills
tangled in summer-dried grasses
and snapped seed heads,
pecked at sniffed at and tumbled
among crusty rabbit droppings.
Cuff sheltering tucked-in snails and slugs,
the sweaty polyester fingers grasping at stars,
it held its own sky burial in black air.
Dad went back for it the next day
alone and scolded –
retraced welly-boot steps, sliding
Mom at home vacuuming and never muddied –
must have really cared
about keeping things together
couldn’t bear the loneliness.
It came back triumphant and silvered
with webs and ooze
frosted with damp and moonlight
dark as a late plum –
a different glove.
Anna Fernandes lives near Bristol and writes about living and mothering through grief and chronic illness. She has recently had work published in Motherlore, The Woolf and Ink and Marrow and was shortlisted for the Laurie Lee Prize for Writing 2024.