Dank noon. You, on the sofa,
curtains drawn, the clean bone
of holly – consumed by the fire.
The I-Pad pitched on your coffee table,
as Bowie trips through his favourite tunes.
Tubby The Tuba, and a punk song
by that well-known punk – Elgar.
Bowie drawls in his last century voice.
I leave you there, curled like a cat.
Watch the sky mosaic until you are with me again.
Snow-crunch underfoot, our breath, smoking.
Later, the fire horses.
And some strange ones there
in the dark
Illustration: Atlanta Wiggs