The Loveless

In my room
of books.
Warm radio noise.
Yorkshire tea.

Across the landing.
The bath runs.
She’ll enter it soon,
and the soapsuds will sigh.

From this chair.
October drizzle presses,
the death of the sweet pea.
My thoughts turn to the loveless.

I was one of them.
Mercury veined,
the spitters of bile,
who cast no shadows.

The tales are dull now.
Intricacies for those,
who are obsessed with the falling.
I shall not tell, or visit.

In the bath,
she sings a prayer.
A Robin redbreast flutters the window.
And my smile comes easy.