Leave-Taking Poem by Sheena Blackhall

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!