This morning I thought how it’s now a year
since, careless, we let slip the jug from our hands –
first you, then me. A crash and a silence and then
the trickle of something thicker than water, than
the small rain that’d soaked our hair the last days,
trickle sliding away into the sodden turning-cold ground.
Odd that we never managed to light the fire
without it smoking the place down, did we.
I wonder do you think of that? – I suppose
that’s why I’m writing you this letter. I
suppose that I may not send it. Outside
the acer’s starting to shed her leaves in their
many shades of gold, amber, red. I’ve just begun
to feed the birds. Is that news? Or this – yes, I’m still
grieving our recent loss. And there’s been another
bomb in my country. When the radio strikes the hour
I close my ears and watch the birds in the yard.
Is that cowardly? Other news – in the shed, one
or two hornets cling drowsily to the architecture
of their communal summer life. I imagine
the rest curled up dead somewhere dry
and dusty. Before winter. The Michaelmas daisies
have faded to the greying white of lost socks.
I wonder how you spend your days. I need
to sweep the courtyard but you know the leaves
are a kind of comfort blanket. I guess we all
need them – comfort blankets, I mean. I expect
you do too. Yes, we’re all doing fine. We are well.
If wonder if I will post this letter.
I wonder if you would open it.