I wrote this poem for my friend Alice, whose father had recently died.
What a picnic
What a party
What a dream
We come
And then we go.
And we slip back through the seam
Like a breath
Breathed out
And everything in between
Is a movie
Or just a picture
Just a beautiful moment in a frame
In a hand
In a room
In a mirror
In a memory
In a mind
In colour
You have what you gave, and who you touched
And then you find you’re holding onto nothing
Just the space between your fingers
And the kind moon at the window always looking on.
