You started to leave as the cold nose of Winter
bulldozed through Guy Fawks skies
and Christmas silent nights.

Your nearness was a far plane
of slumped reflection, deliberation,
contemplation of your plight, so mine.

Suspicion stirred in morning tea
and pre-work niceties.
You watched me when I turned my back,
your head buried in the ‘Daily Mail’,
too close to the print.

Denial hugged me a long while, dismissing
the cosseted phone and obsessive hygiene.

Giggling-head days, home-fire Wednesdays,
pledges in sweat daze
all rolling around
on a distant carousel.
I hoped you could see,
but hope could not override
your turning tide.

Your eyes begged for the ‘talk’,
so you could bring it up
like rancid *****.

Coward

You left in a yellow haze with the daffodils,
and I hated you

with all the love anyone could imagine.