On this opal morning

I miss my mum.

If she was in the kitchen

making coffee,

everything would be alright.

We’d have plain chocolate digestives.

Dip the smiling edges till

the chocolate melted

warm as love.

 

In an Ealing garden apples trees

would be clad in pink and white

clothes hang on a sagging line

propped by a cloven branch.

A black cat would doze in sun.

 

At dawn the sky is pink and blue

melting to grey.

Red tail lights slide up Teagle straight,

Bantam cocks crow in the lower field.

I go downstairs and stoke the rayburn

Sit drinking coffee, watch the news.

But it’s not the same.