I cannot write.
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,