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.