The empty fields

Where nothing remains

Beneath thorns of gorse

Down long, grey lanes

 

Under the leaves

Or the black undertow

Over that bridge

You would have known

 

And those that wait by windows stare

They are not here, you are not there

 

A missing scarf

A red left shoe

All of these dregs

That are not you

 

A concrete bench

Where we would talk

On things that were

But aren’t any more

 

And those that wait by windows stare

They are not here, you are not there

 

Amongst the debris

On closed circuit screens

In each of these lines

And the spaces between

 

I thought I saw you

In every place

But in the very last scene

There is no trace