After the funeral
The rope swing at Nanna’s
still tethered to the Sycamore
tree, still the safest place to be.
I make dust clouds with my feet
and watch the heat rise in waves
from the tarmac on the drive.
I’m six again and see her
standing there, a tub of laundry
by her feet, a wooden peg
gripped in her teeth
and sheets sailing the wind.
Beside me a sparrow
perches on a wooden post
watching us both,
tilting his head and listening
to words I no longer hear.
Sam Payne has recently completed a degree in English Literature with The Open University and would like to write a novel but poetry is a small child constantly following her around and demanding attention.