The year after my brother died,
I was out on my threadbare Vespa
in countryside south of Bradford.
The day was warm and blue;
I let myself get lost, turn by turn,
until I rode solo along the lanes.
Low, overhead of me, a plane flew
with a single propeller,
its undercarriage painted cloud-like:
its span the shape of a Spitfire,
or other kin from boyhood books.
I stopped in the road,
cut the engine, and took off my helmet;
and heard it made no sound.
I was untethered in those years
by grief that made my life unreal.
I stood and beckoned to this ghost.
