that walk through the cemetery,
we found a plastic flower wound
round the branch of a bare winter tree,
beautiful in the distance.
you closed in to inspect it,
scorn dripped from your fingertips
all over its petals like acid.
moss-covered damp bench we sat on.
to view the peculiar sight of crops,
motionless, all withered by the durham frost,
shrinking in my coat from your lecture.
death seems so much more possible suddenly,
photographed, all around like the
february sun, mundane, complacent, unremarkable.
Saturday mornings scrunched up
by cold radiators,
slicing the mould off cheese,
while Mark watches the athletics or Space 1999.
I can imagine you sitting with your diary open,
or working out the diction of your letters,
scrutinising my mistakes, my deadend life.
I am a ladybird, trapped in your
double glazing, helpless to analysis.
Photo by Belinda.