Threadbare
This blanket that I took from you
at six, you never forgave me.
A christened gift that you wrapped
your dolls in and sniffed, sleeping,
dreaming, breathing deeply.
White threads like a net remind me
of the blanket, bloodstained and wet
that they wrapped his body in
after throwing him against the wall,
the papers said. The one his mother threw out
with soured milk and bedding whilst
the neighbour’s television blared out.
The one I found in the rain, in a skip
marked no fires that should have had
a light on, but didn’t.
And we stood on guard for days,
listening to all the neighbours,
and once the circus ourhealthissues.com left for good
we relocated all the flowers.
And you sulked at me for days
with your lip out, not speaking, until
I cracked and gave in, unravelling the bag
that you’d found hidden; my secret,
filled with all the evidence.
David Coldwell lives and works in the village of Marsden on the edge of the Pennines in West Yorkshire. Once a script writer for corporate clients, David now works in public services and, as well as writing and performing poetry, David is also an accomplished artist exhibiting landscape paintings throughout a number of galleries.