where you were

I will not hear you whisper

against the stillness

of suspended midnight snow flakes

or scream at the wind,

chasing it off a cliff

or hear you slam cupboard doors

too early in the morning.

I will not wait for you to come home,

or keep a porchlight on for you.

We will not pick strawberries in August

or learn to dig a proper garden

or burn things in the oven

or forget both our sets of keys.

My children won't hold your hand;

you will never blow up their balloons

or see them blow out their candles.

We will not drink tea on autumn afternoons

where the centre of our universe would have spun

around a vase on the kitchen table.

We will not watch the sea where waves like

cataracts would have patched the present

and swept us back against time to

where you really were.