This is another from a series of nine poems I wrote in early 2012. A few were published in different versions in London Grip . All nine of the poems were nine lines long and were concerned with the deaths or illnesses of poets and writers – perhaps a rather unhealthy preoccupation of mine at the time. I found the poems again today (see previous 2 posts) while looking through some files and I’d thought I’d share them here. I promise return to cheerier subjects in my next post.
Through a gap in the curtains
London railings pierce a wrap
of fog. She’s long since kissed
the children, left a note
to call the Dr, pressed her forehead
to frozen glass. Wet towels
and muslin are putty in the gaps.
There’s nothing more to do.
A milk-float rattles past.