By | 1 June 2013

Ignus Fatuus (Fools’ fire)

It’s you, Elizabeth, got left behind.
Black clouds mass on the hill above. Here’s how
it goes: head full of shadows, tired, spaced out;
pipe smoke, wet collie, hob-nail clack in hall.
This time, pain-blitzed, churchyard in mind, your toy
half-grave, blue bobbing candle flames float past
the gaping parlour door. Signposts, head height,
omens of fate, my baneful toxic plight,
your death lament, this jack o’lantern fugue
of grief, remorse and dread lures me towards
the darkness where your doll-size coffin lies.
Your perfect angel eyes are marrow-less,
like when they snapped us both, in hospital,
you folded on my breast, voiceless, gene-cracked.

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