Still —
I kept
writing.

Sometimes
just:
“Hi.”

Inside my bedroom I take a fresh blade
pull off my jumper, examine the ladder
in front of the mirror cut through my laces
rung by rung

That’s when she went to ground,
after she disobeyed, painted her plastic tea set
red, hidden away in the playhouse they built
down where bindweed draped

You and I have had many talks since you died.

If when you go to the barber today
He asks if you’d like him to ‘tidy up your ears’,
Think of all the wildest sprawling vegetation
That will never be tidied, or trimmed, by clippers or shears,

High up, out of reach,
on a branch, no, more a twig,
a little wizened, shrunken face leers down.

not the kind you eat with
but useful to turn the soil
root out potatoes or carrots

My Father Bought a Signal Box
dismantled it piece by piece
then sold the wood, as a job lot.

we hug and i act cool
as the american fridge ice
shattering on kitchen tiles