Her grief is like the shadow play

of bones snapped in an old X-ray

unsleeved to show what love had done

to her and her bright skeleton.

Lit up, half-cut, she starts to flag

still clutching her green shopping bag

of gin and ashes as she weaves

through deep, midge-haunted silences

exhausted to this break of trees

where, in its pop-up sepulchre,

the moon, as if consoling her,

unearths a white owl’s requiem

for her ripped dress, its unstitched hem

come loose, as she herself has come

bare-legged and torn to scatter him.