Night has wrapped its arms around the walls
and run its tongue along the lips of the window pane.
Night, an empty vessel to be filled hour by hour,
a hot water bottle grown cold and comfortless.
I thought that in his death we would find peace,
that we could bury the skeletons neatly in the closet,
their dark secrets shared only with a frantic moth
struggling, beating its wings against dry dust.
It was clearly a mistake to take the skeleton out,
especially as it laid so still at the bottom of the pile;
for now there is a whole graveyard tumbling on the floor
moaning to be examined, bone by bone.
I could re-arrange them, one by one
like filing photographs methodically in albums,
but your image refuses to be shut on shelves,
dusted down and thumbed through only occasionally.
The sun rises, placing its mouth over the window’s pain
and inevitably inflates life into day once again.
I hold a string of ghosts as a child holds a balloon
then release them, they float up eclipsed by the fading moon.
Kate Young has been passionate about poetry since childhood. She lives with her husband in Kent and having recently retired from infant teaching she has returned to writing. She had some success with poems published in magazines when she was active in Strood poetry group and now enjoys meeting members from The Poetry Society at her local Stanza group. She is currently working on a new collection of poems and editing previous work. Alongside poetry, Kate enjoys art, dance and playing the guitar and her growing collection of ukuleles!