Where will you be, my love?
My phantom man, my memory?
Will you be leaning on the bar,
red wine waiting for you to touch the glass?
Will you be walking through the square
or up the hill, towards the church?
Or in the car park by The Queen’s Hotel?
Or in the car park by the station?
Or in the car park anywhere?
Will you be carrying your guitar?
Will you be wearing that same hat?
Will I see the red-pink of your coat,
the one that lost a single, treasured thread?
I harden my heart for what’s to come,
for seeing spectres weave and wound,
for you will be everywhere