(for Daisy Boyd)


Post-hearted and regretted 

we find you already fallen


autumn always kills me

the trees let go silvering fierce


the show is on the ground 

the sky is upturned


London is no longer famous

the children are buzzing fingertips 


a paper bag of tears named Diana

ceremonial stone walls


cigarette end gasping a golden rope

an arrow of the past


I don’t know how many times we’ve moved house

to find space for dreaming


all of our old letters remain the downpour 

unable to disturb the living


Ophelia is in the wind somewhere on the coast 

leaving the sand to announce its suffering


the summer before comes back to haunt us

abandoned crows


Bunhill Fields undated

the remains of lovers


prepared like a porcelain dinner 

always promising and staggering.