Re: past

I have a picture in my mind
of the family round the table.
It’s a blurry image
you in your chair
with arms
lifting the skin from fish
dribbling
oil spots on the cloth.
A fingerbowl would have been nice
you say. But it‘s not really
your sort of food is it?
Just because Clare’s tried
something different
you have, as ever, the need to criticise.
Cup of tea, anyone?

I didn’t think
the end would be like this
like you, yes, very like you,
I wanted time
to quantify the content
make neat piles
on either side of the bed
say this part is yours and this mine.
Hold hands even.
Yet I sit in the dying light
quietly raging.
As the days pass
what hardness
in me refuses to be moved?