Wrapped up in gilet, scarf and cap you stand
across the road from me. I know you’re dead –
but I feel caught out, living in your flat.

Dodging the traffic, specs in hand, I cry,
look, I’ve kept your glasses – just changed
the lenses. I’m trying to say I’ve not discarded you.

You look a little rueful, tell me you’re living
on Mont Blanc now, you needed fresher air
and an opportunity for skiing.

Yet here you are, translucent on my borders –
your gold knot cuff-links, those wrist-locks,
dangling heavy from my earlobes.

Winner of The Silver Wyvern, Poetry On The Lake, 2022