awaken
to white shroud

unblemished page
from pregnant sky

sieved silence
in languid waltz

to sigh to glass
punctuate the scrawny

exclamations
of a naked tree

as though a blessing
enamel acceptance

sorting out
the loft
in the fuzzy black
aftermath days

the owl
liquorice eyes
glares at my
torch-in-hand

you remember
the pub
used to have
a fox

mid-skulk
streak immobilised
we wondered
why anybody

would want
a stuffed body
static animal
figure of death

but somehow
handed down
to you
burnt toast wings

on wooden plinth
popped in the loft
‘till now
‘till your departure

sun begins
bow to sleep

sets sky
in vermilion haze

present me
with palmful

of touch     touch
pacifies palm

could be lined
with sunshine

happy lemonade
threads

There IS nobody to ask, you say,
when we turn our stomachached motor
up another wavy lane, temporarily
rest it as we squint at the AA Big Easy
Read Britain 2022, locate the B3220
and realise we’re in another
splodge of a town, homes in a hodgepodge,
the obligatory church. A mistake, we know now,
to leave late in the day, another hour ‘till
The Hole in the Wall where they’ll wait,
no doubt sigh, waste time spinning
the beermats as a gaggle of rowdy
just past-the-post teens blot the night
with the guzzling of spirits, their hangovers
like belches of fog come lun - Satnav wasn’t
on the blink, but it is. Now look, I say,
calmly because tempers can boil over
matters so trivial, if we take the A3124,
wriggle right at Whiddon Down
to the A30, breeze by Exeter, a doddle
down to the coast, we’ll make it by nine.
You know how impatient they are. Ten
minutes won’t hurt, the vehicle grumbling
into action, tired and miffed with our
wonky deviation. It’s then, eking back
the way we came, an image forms - a bronzed,
slippery chalice named Stella, flat cap
of foam on the rim of extinction.

When the time comes
to prise open the plastic
tomb that encapsulates your three
tiers of soft biscuit-toned sponge,
the creamy middle stratum
with pinkish strawberry streaks
I take a crew of old plastic
candles used for this occasion only,
lit, wished and blown upon eight times
previously when poked in cakes
of yesteryear, **** them in the snowfall
sugar cloak, spaced out, baptise them
with flame until their flickers
extinguish and your ninth birthday
burns on, mutely drips into a pocket
full of your own past.

Yes, I have the keys,
my coat pocket, left-hand side,
you know this was quite pricey
and I don’t usually go for pricey clothing
but I think the bedroom light’s still on
so I’d better check. We’ve lived here
going on for fiveyears now, the wallpapering
was the biggest issue, the light’s off remember, not
the actual slather-on-paste-job-done, no, choosing
what felt right, said ‘play it safe’ so a light blue
is what we went for my keys are gone,
they’ll be in the bowlby the door. The game
will be a *******, relegation battle, it usually is
with us, I’ve been saying for ages the kitchen
window might be open sorry, relegation
and we’ve needed a twenty-goal-a-season
striker with thebedroom light’s stillon
my keys might be in there too. If we sign
somebody in the transferwindow’s shut, I knew
it was, the link-up play’s tight, wecan move up
towards mid-tablemediocrity I think
lightisoff
mustremember that now keys
noideathough ah the bowl. I’lljust grab fastfood
for my window’s keys
fordinner, not healthybuteasy I did shut
the window I knewIhad was it bowlforkeys,
no sillyofme coatpocket, notcheap no not atall
healthy comeonhow often doIeatburgers chips
notevenvery tasty bowl, rightthen
I’mreadyifonly lightisoff
knewI’d remember.

I’d just returned home from the supermarket
and had put the bag-for-life on the table-top
when my mobile trembled. When it’s been that long
you do that silent slight stagger back action, at least
I did that Thursday afternoon, not quite able
to register the white pixels that had formed
your name, the jumble of numbers assigned to you.

So I answered hello and you spoke; I’m surprised
you kept my number all this time. You’d moved.
No, how would I know this, I said, sloping my neck
with phone sandwiched between cheek and shoulder,
draining the bag’s contents, when this is the first
communication in half a decade, if not more? Sorry,
but life got in the way. At that I could’ve yelled,

really let rip. Not one moment to call? Sixty months?
I knew what would unfold from your mouth next,
predictable as a non-White Christmas. I let you ramble,
I nodded though you couldn’t see, put bananas
in the bowl, grunted with each elucidation;
baby, job, car, sleep, money, partner, virus, repeat.
Then you said look, I’ll be in town, a few hours

to catch up over a pint, if you want. I could’ve said no
but actually, why not? Why not dip the toes
into that vast loch of nostalgia, memories like
jellyfish swirling below the surface? Could’ve called
you out on incompetency but maybe we’re all the same.
A Friday then, in two weeks, I said fine. I’d be sure
to remember. Just like you had remembered.