You said the perfume's to die for;
I'd die for less, but remember
holding tired onto my father's back in late September.
It was a strange brand of sadness because
the lapwings hadn't yet arrived whilst the dragonflies
departed and in that lifeless grief he carried the
blackberries home
as well as me.
All scratched and nettle stung and
sucking purpled thumb.
Miles it seemed to West Byfleet over
stiles and dreams to rest my feet and
drink for days the smell of jam.
And then some other times to wake and wonder
If truly alive
was screaming in the dampness of sweat.
Secrets are something to die for.
