Despatches

Christmas morning; that off-kilter smile...a last gift
from you, sweet child, and mine – your favourite skin cream.

“Moisturise, moisturise, moisturise...” your motto,
your mantra – your lifeline.

And so I massaged you; every north, south, east
and west of you; watched you skim the coast...drift
to your island; only touch keeping you afloat.

Eyes that, once, sparkled with massed crystals
like the scales of a Blue-Paradise fish, fought
to stay open, as I strove to keep you in my sights
in the unforgiving mist of yesterdays
and my own self-pity.

This wasn’t how it was meant to be; not
what I’d had in mind at all... since
the first stutter of your eyelids brushing my cheek
became the last thing I’d forget...

And you, running in from the yard;
your brow – curved
like a dandelion flower;
trenchant, as you’d grown...

a question mark of a curl on your forehead,
small hands cupped, as if in prayer...
a baby sparrow, fallen from the nest.

“May we keep it?” you said, and I taught you
the art of letting go, as I needed you to teach me...then.

My hand in yours, felt the love affair you had with life, fast
slipping through your fingers, as fell petals to the floor –
French lavender, and lilac

in the vase by your bed that caught the light;
angled stints of a gilt edged blackberry sky, snagged
on purpure thorns of goodbyes.

Your room – dark, but for the unflinching,
blue, luminescence of an indifferent T.V.

Half-past eight, and how I wanted to ‘stop all the clocks...’
lace curtains quivering with the draught
from an open casement window.

Moonshine on frosted glass...shimmering
like a seabird’s wings, risen from the tide; the ether –
electric with escape. Fly high,
fledgling mine.