I wear my sisters round my wrist.
Loop over loop their twisted
hair chafes my skin as I write
here in the kitchen late at night;
who is it clears her throat before
the clock's strike at turn of stair,
whose the face in the copper pan?
Out of the gate for air, I run
and they're leaping now from stone
to stone. Down the cobbled lane
I fly in Anne's best cotton gloves,
the hob-nailed boots Emily loved.
Footsteps when there's no-one there,
just these twists of my sisters' hair.
Mourning Bracelet by Carole Bromley | Sandalwood & Vanilla Poetry Reed Diffuser
$20.00Price
