Ghosts

Delphinium blue.....

Cornflower

Hydrangea..... all in the gardens at Killerton House on Sunday.

I have been upright all weekend.

 Backbone firm, resolute. Al dente.

 Sunday evening though I'm wiping up the crumbs speckling the tea tray

 with a damp blue cloth.

It's the oval wooden tray I used to lay up for his supper every night.

I ate my green salad and slice of pizza from it tonight.

Not thinking about him.

But slotting it away along the side of the food mixer,

next to the small wooden tray I usually use

 the ghost of all those scrambled eggs on toast 

smothered with the sweet chilli sauce he loved,

knocks my breath out.

Pouffe! I am cooked spaghetti,

 and my backbone bends, 

drapes me forwards first over the counter

then loops me down to the hard floor 

a useless carapace for the 

aching hollow 

 where my heart 

used to live.

The ghost of his arms

holding my back

is not enough

to dam

the flood.

I use the damp blue cloth

to wipe that up,

that salty, snotty puddle.

What a wet and messy business

it is 

to mourn 

the heat of

another's heart. 

Solid, regular,

beating

against your own.