This is another poem about loss – but also, I hope, about life
With These We Are Left
The sweep of her fingers through dust on a mirror
a small hair curled on the bathroom floor
a door handle clicked, pulled shut
a footprint unstepped on sand or rock
a cheek unstroked, three cheers unlaughed
a forehead unkissed goodnight
The window is opened; a breeze slips in,
a thread of cobweb shivers. The roses unwrap, their scent
spills free and tumbles to the glorious garden.
A child runs into the English sea, waterwild, undressed, undried,
a tiny shoot who will later push and bloom
unweeded through paving cracks.