trouble travels on many winds
and snags itself in sunshine hair
This morning,
after the phone call
from my mum,
I try to reach the girl,
five or six years old,
who flew from Canada
to Lincolnshire to meet
her scattered family.
she still stands there, by the window,
laughing at some unforgotten something
Of course she was ours
from the moment she was made.
Nanna’s million photos pointed,
one by one, to each new stage:
first tooth, first words
first finger painting.
Those summer days of den building,
cakes and cats and curry making,
became myth-sized memories:
ice-cream clouds
to keep afloat a storm-born tree.
those of us left, still have that grin
tucked somewhere safe
Ten years later, she’s on a Sussex beach,
shivering against the wind.
I trace a mind-line around her teenage self,
bravely facing waves
in a bikini, bought for Brazil.
scattered family
words said. unsaid. unsaid. unsaid
When I get the news
there’s nothing to do.
Nothing useful.
Too hard to solve the unsolvable.
Too late anyway.
frayed chords worn
salt-tears dried
they tried. they tried
I flick through Facebook:
The missed calls in the middle of the night.
The three month chip.
And more.
The setting and resetting of hopefulness:
new course, new job, new friend, new love.
Oma, Opa, Brother, Brother, Sister
Nanna, Grandpa, Mum, Dad.
demons leap lightly
but fall on heavy feet
You will be missed.
You will be missed.
