Their shore leave over,
. . . the spirits of the dead are bid farewell
until that time next year, when ritual
grants them reprieve again.

Sometimes words are the only thing
that get you through,
But not the words you think,
not a word like love or hope
those are imprecise.

We lit a candle for you
that day in Sacre  Coeur,
under its white-flame dome
as high as Paris could go

On Kinley’s Lane, quince tree, wild blackberries, branches of feijoa reaching over a fence, fallen fruit.

What was the Welsh for ‘hedgehog’? That was what he wanted to know.

Rectangular, with corners cut off like an octagon, muddy brown shows through the cream exterior where the edges are chipped.

How many blows does it take to crack an egg?
Is a question I never expected to ask
If you don’t know, I should tell you, an egg
Is what they call the girl inside the male mask

The hue of brides, appliquéd dark with henna.
Citron’s acid curl, vernal blades between teeth.

I sell the postcard
of multi-coloured sheep
over and over again.