A Month of Sundays

Days run into rivers,
And quiet colours air
(Caught myself turning to you,
Yet I knew that you’re not there).

Hours bleed grey, and I count
The window’s tearful streaks
Pointing the way, far from here.
(Wishing for the floorboards to creak).

The ghost comes when its dark
Often, now the light’s gone
And sings pretty, floating thoughts
(But I get all the words wrong).

You’re far away tonight
But never out of view.
(Every time I go to sleep
All I think about is you).




By Megan Hopkin
Illustration: Claire Palmer

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