Tuesday, 11 February 2014


The morning you crept
from the bed,
barely aware, I heard
the rattle and thrum
of a diesel at the curb,
click of the catch,
crunch of gravel,
thud of the door.

The cooled depression,
the ridge of duvet
along my back,
the false impression
you're there. Already out
of the cul-de-sac.