writing

Toffee

The room unpacked. Your clothes on the bed, your notebooks spread on the desk. We run through your papers, your old accounts. Deconstruct what’s left. Piles for the charity shop, to keep, to hand me down. I check the pockets of your coat. The one you’d wear as we’d walk in the Spring. Pull out a tissue, a worn 20p piece, a toffee wrapper that lost it’s shine. I hold onto it, see you unwrapping it, passing one to me. A secret just for us, those years ago. Years ago. I rub the wrapper as the tears sting. Put it in my pocket. Keep you safe. A little longer.

Picnic

We pack our wicker hamper, sandwiches in triangles, crunchy apples, a flask of lemonade.

Set out for a day. An imaginary day. Away.

Lay out the best rug, in our garden,
no further. Not yet, not today,

The sun is warm and we dream of
days past, days yet to come,

Of all the places we will go, the faces we will see.

Of the warmth we will feel. On
that day.