Hailstones white-water these pale hours like birds
pecking glass. For once the rock dove is silent.
From the bedside cabinet, crammed with floral scraps
slender bones reach out, prise my eyelids apart.
Papa told me my keeper was not a stayer, that
roadmaps have dead ends no one sees.
And there are stations fallen into disrepair,
that become home to fox, rabbit and vole.
Time and Ivy leave no markers. I was the halt
of a ghost passenger.
Luminous his child feathers my skin, finds me
searching for needle and thread.
©Natalia Spencer 2016
Header Image Mike Linksvayer