Death deepens me unfairly. Gone too

soon the days you could roll your eyes at

the unsuitable dress your unsuitable

mum was wearing with the red shoes.
 

Now the shoes themselves are

talisman. You touch them in your

trek for clean socks. I make your

world quieter. So much you never noticed:
 

The black hawthorns against the

black sky, the sinister rhododendron by

the front door. And next door the

woman hanging washing on the line.
 

Does she see how her body folds

in on itself, bending softly earthward

toward the new growth - crocuses, 

violets, the ghostly blades of grass?
 

This was my favorite time of year. 

I liked the sudden storms, the bluster

of turning earth. Blowsy as a woman in

her ninth month, I said to you once.
 

You stared, uncomprehending. Why am

I here? I watch as you paint

black circles around your eyes, 

nail polish to stop the run in your tights.

There is so little I can do for you -

blow a breath on the back of your neck, 

be the mist that hugs you, flash

my teeth from a passing bus window.
 

Instead, I trail distant, after, 

willing you to enter the soggy garden, 

stride the streets one after

the other. Breathe. Forget me.