Not even the owls had eyes hollower
than mine after the dark had emptied them.
The world woke in the night, full of questions:
trees like widows wringing their hands and keening,
grass whispering rumours around my feet.
Even the wind ran off to seek you out,
pausing just to look and shiver weakly
at the loneliness between the night’s ears.
Everything had given up by morning
when the sun began its search, and letters
sent for you dropped in low reminders
through the letterbox, mute and indifferent.
Someone saw you speaking with a man
whose eyes were bright and false as moorlanterns.
They said you followed him, casting off the days
as though time had been placed into your palm
like a rounded pebble, old and perfected,
to be skimmed over waiting waters.