Walking back from your house,
Orion calling to me over mine,
the glow at the next street light
burst into fluid noise, birdsong at midnight
rippling through our suburb
with no one but me to hear.
I should have gone back and got you,
taken you to hear.
But I’m still uncertain of your reaction,
pragmatic as you are,
and you need to get your students marking done.
The bird was calling out unheard
or heard only by me.
Just as you call and are unheard.
The idiot man who left you,
the sisters who think you should be
over it by now,
and only me, each Wednesday night
to listen to you as we paint.
Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Advertisements
So well written – what a sad situation for your friend.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I think the worst bit for her now is being a single mother through no fault of her own. It’s hard and unrelenting.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Men who leave women care nothing for the child left behind either.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Very true!
LikeLiked by 1 person
That’s moving, and sensitive – and well-crafted as poetry too, Kim.
LikeLike
Thank you John.
LikeLike
Kim, you are a wonderful friend to console your friend through her loss. Maybe the birdsong at midnight is your gift for being sensitive to her needs.
LikeLiked by 1 person