I kid myself you’re on one of those
many business trips you took abroad.
Used to give you hell each time...
as I recall. Like being a lone parent,
I said, even though you did your best
to make it back for everyone’s birthday.
Christmas and Easter too, you moved
heaven and earth to be there. Missed you
like you couldn’t imagine; hit the rum
most every night. Hated it really; puked
my guts up. A mire of self-pity, mine
to wallow in, as I saw fit.
Yesterday, took a walk up ‘our hill’ –
the flora and fauna confused
by the coldest winter on record.
Today, they suddenly appeared -
petals, soft as the down on your neck,
and then, guess what I thought next?
When you got home, I would count
(as ever) the latest crop of freckles
on that sun-burnt nose of yours – still
warm from Arabian sun. And how
I would show you the snowdrops –
heavy with the white heat of love;
nodding heads – bowed.