M for Miss Haynes.jpg

iss Haymes

"I'm tired of your concern, your mother-henning.

Your prising open of something pretty, something lost;

your polite digging, after all this time.

Your fumbling questions tumbling all over me,

nagging and nodding at my petty life."

She had walked around bleeding, bleeding for warmth.

Past the corpse supposedly planted in

the dog-forsaken garden beyond buried bones.

Past houses door-slamming their distain

amongst much growling and the whisper of suspicion

that the locals told about an absence

not understand even in her own house.

Past the neighbouring shutters that blocked

their inner glows with selective generosity:

cold heat dimmed by the snuff snub of douters.

The snatch had been a reclamation,

not a kidnap: something heartfelt returned

to its rightful place amongst homely objects.

Staid judgements had snapped their locks with fortitude,

to help keep disorder tidy and neat and within bounds.

The bleeding stopped later - with her snuffled hopes.

The wind's soft sigh had blown out her candle.

The remembrance in the window was no longer to dance

to the flickering leaves signalling to kin,

but now lay as a curled wisp in a clasped locket.

When questioned, eventually, about the keepsake,

she distanced herself from polite enquiry

by looking out at the garden's sapling:

it was just a little girl she once knew

- and it was past.

copyright Asidescapes 2014