Leave-Taking

This is the seventh week of your leave-taking I am re-walking our happy places The river is spreading out her fan of amber Her pretty illusions rippling like taffeta Memories swirl like the winged seeds of sycamores Your dust is shelved in a box, beneath the door of the grave In the monstrous dark, I cannot reach or touch you Your few possessions binned, or burned, or lost Each day now is a cloud, caught on a nail I think I see your profile in the crowd Imagine you running, waving, by my bus Crying ‘ Mother, mother, I'm here! ' I wish a crow could pick my mind away Make it a windy space like a dead eye. My precious hatchling, Ah, could you only climb back into your shell!