That September Saturday, your cases
sat neatly in the boot, on a morning
sharp with autumn’s first frost.
Your last two pairs of socks still frozen
to the line. The amber sun raised vapour.
The socks refused to thaw.
In the cold glow the sycamore dropped
black-spotted yellow leaves on the tarmac
near the door. You picked one up,
tied it to a low branch with a length
of rainbow-coloured thread. It hung,
spinning, a fraction from the ground,
a last plaything for your cat.
Now, two months on, the thread remains
damp and idling in the shortening days.
But holds fast in its fibres the blue,
green and yellow of your childhood years.
From: New Grass under Snow
