Haven't posted on here in a while, mainly because I can't write. This is the only poem I've written all year that I've been remotely happy with, so here you go.
For Michael Tempest
Though practically a grown man,
I scurried from the bathroom
across the landing and into bed
with the blanket from the radiator.
And while I slept, he died,
the brightness knocked out
of his eyes forever
by some component of a car.
Last night, outside my window,
a bird announced the arrival of spring,
the white cherry blossom buds opening
as though in response to its choice of tune.
And this morning, five years on,
the sun rose once more into cloud.
Though briefly it shone through a gap,
lit everything pink, but then was gone.
He would have been twenty-one.
