You have shut my eyes,
cut short my speech.
All I do is listen for your last words.
They are there each day
hooked on the curving hedgerow,
or squatting on the buckled gate.

I lost your last look,
deep in the morning mist
of ash, where light bends
citrine and blood orange.
You took it when you left
without looking round,
with crow scattered steps
across the field.

I try not to remember your touch,
it is too much, and makes a fist
in my pocket.
Black eyes watch me then,
and crow feet strut
familiar but unfriendly,
like this morning meadow.

They are poor company,
unintentionally cruel.
Their knowing look hits me
where I am vulnerable,
in a silence so deep I hear
my breath rise and fall.
But they don’t leave me,
and beyond the mist
I hear their bothers caw…..caw….call.