After

The accretion of dust;

the kitchen’s new uselessness settling;

apples gathering on the garden floor.

The getting into bed alone 

and waking momentarily undone.

I wonder if he cried 

or had lived beyond crying.

That face so versed in work and weather;

widowed into granite

and made once more religious.

He-llooooo – she used to sing, who is it?

I remember everything.

Battle of the jackets in the hallway,

the soft sock of must sunstruck 

and drifting. Sweet treats in the dodgy-

handled drawer and drawn-out hands 

of forty-five, amidst the table creak

and marmalade-scrape, McCambridge-

crunch and background radio-scatter.

The field-deep dresser in the sitting room

that my aunt took after.