Image: Alexander Norton
She died just before the sun rose
and her coffee sat on the dressing table untouched.
Cold and alone she lay when I found her
and so did the coffee in the cup.
She had a full face of make up; lipstick and eye-shadow
sat on her porcelain skin.
Ready to go, but she lay cold and rotting
like the coffee on the table.
We buried her on an auburn day
and the sky had been drawn by children,
with smudges of black charcoal made from grubby hands.
Scribbly grey clouds clung to the orange canvas.
Her red dress danced in the wind
to silent music whilst we lowered her into the ground.
Buried beneath the flowers, a woman with silver hair;
The coffee untouched.