Sunday 24 June 2018


Finding personal items belonging to the departed, always calls me up short.
 Here is a poem about one of those finds.

Missing You

Your shoes still hold the shape of you.
I find them where you left them
to dry, perhaps, one behind the other
on the doorstep. Left foot forward,
slightly hen-toed. As if you are walking
a tight rope, which you were,
though we didn’t know it.
They look poised to step over

whatever obstacle is in your way.
They look practiced, ragged, war-torn.
Nike - you must have bought them in a sale,
as you’d never pay the price for brand-names.
They’re not your style, or colour, but surely your size?
though you’ve been known to buy bigger
at the right price. You even bought odd sizes once
in a bargain-basement. “Scrooge!” we called you.

But you were never stingy with your heart.
Emptying out your account for those who deserved
and those who aspired
and those who just happened to be there.

I will leave the shoes, just- so.
Primed and poised on some imminent adventure
Waiting for your say-so
Waiting for you

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