Yesterday, without warning your
Suzuki Alto somersaulted on the M4

with you caught inside, contorted
as the spine of the rust-sunk bedstead

disguised by the garden’s
tangle of dog roses, dividing
coded vegetables

from your lawn: a stage.

Two birds blend
their story on a wire:
you and I

aged eight and nine entwined

by the school piano where
our mother sparkles out
the keyboards certainties

in black and white. I’d keep my eyes
on that portrait of the Queen, feel

soprano notes tingle through your
clothes. Now you can’t even breathe solo.

Samantha Wynne-Rhydderch


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