No trace of yesterday. The cat’s curled at the foot of the bed. Clothes are neat on the rail. Outside, the lawn’s a tongue tasting mushrooms, and sparrows are breath, drawing in, sighing out. Where the garden ends, there are no newspapers or dropped coins at bus stops. There are no swapped numbers on phones and no wallets left in the backs of taxis. At the coast, surf browses the shore like a window shopper from when – when? – there were shops and windows, and over there, just beyond the countries in the colour brochures, is a field full of bobbing suns. In a small, white house, a baby’s curled in a crumpled cot and there’s no trace of yesterday.
Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor