Yesterday, without warning your
Suzuki Alto somersaulted on the M4
with you caught inside, contorted
as the spine of the rust-sunk bedstead
disguised by the garden’s
tangle of dog roses, dividing
coded vegetables
from your lawn: a stage.
Two birds blend
their story on a wire:
you and I
aged eight and nine entwined
by the school piano where
our mother sparkles out
the keyboards certainties
in black and white. I’d keep my eyes
on that portrait of the Queen, feel
soprano notes tingle through your
clothes. Now you can’t even breathe solo.
Samantha Wynne-Rhydderch
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