It stems from a time I imagine to be November coloured;

a damp grey, a playground painted like a paramedic’s jacket,

a green surreal field amongst concrete, a black tree

with one plastic bag leaf.

 

I stood with the cold that wouldn’t stay still, that would follow me,

come between me and a bar of soap,

stare at me through the eyes of a doll;

the cotton of her dress, yellowed, her halo

disappearing in my hands.

 

I cannot speak of love, in times like these,

it is insignificant. It smacked my jaw back,

made me bite my face like a whore

and it took my words away like a magpie -

my children, gone.

 

In moments alone,

I wish it would not come.

 

But I do,

I do,

wish

 

it

 

would.