Anna
Sat in a dimpled absence
of you, on the rucked bed
with the cat washing her face;
steady licks on curled paws,
each wiped up and over an ear,
we sit in an oblong of early light
that slants over stool, chest, chair.
We watch from the open window
house martins swoop forth and back
again and again, babbling song.
In a diary you gave
with a pen you left I write first thoughts;
emptiness, the quiet house.
I’m half reflected in the long mirror edge,
half your bed, the Afghan-rugs tessellations repeat,
and you, half a world away hear other birds,
watch Fire flies in the clammy dark.
Mitzie is cuddled up on your indentation,
asleep among the lists you left.
Sun cuts a sharp angle over crimson quilt.
How to endure? I will of course, we do.
Parting is the sweet pain. It says I care.
Beverley Fry