Seven years since the swimming accident and not
a day different – except the fuss dissolved.
In a swoosh the event explodes, vomiting details
over those innocents who listen.

And if I’m honest, I haven’t begun to look ahead.

Living in external time, daytime habits, skating on ice,
scratching the spot, forgetting the future.
The moment funnelled by stepping stones
popping up above a low spring tide of feeling.

So, I look for a projected future – the needle
in the haystack, but does it exist? Instead I
avoid the spaces of deepening loss –
Christ how do I organise chaos.

Yet every day draws me closer to dwelling in that space.
But how can I be bereaved there is nobody to
mourn.