Poppies and Polka-dots

Yesterday was her birthday.
She looked pretty in her party dress –
the satin one with polka-dots.
Red always was her colour.
The sash I neatly tied,
braided ribbons in her hair –
waist long it was,
how she wore it as a child.
No sophisticated mid-jaw bob.
Her skin, translucent –
a perfect rosebud smile,
like a china doll’s.

That’s the thing about a dream;
it’s got a mind and a life of its own.
It’s been ten month’s now –
give or take the odd week,
day, hour. But who’s counting?
Don’t want to wake up crying,
not any more. Learn to live with it
they tell me. It’s high time I moved on.
And so, tonight I’ll drink at least
two cups of coffee – count
the poppies on the wall.
Listen to the dust … as it falls.