4th June 2018

red roses
in an arch over the lawn
petals

© Rachel Green 2018

Yellow tape
held down with lumps of flint
and sea-smooth driftwood
hammered into pebbled sand.
overhead spirals
of wailing herring gulls
wary of the blue lights on the quay
and the congregation of officials
and local reporters.
The body of a young man
clothed, one boot missing,
washed up with the morning tide
looks like he's sleeping;
one leg drawn up
arms outstretched
a damp salutation to the sun
somewhere behind those clouds.
I knew him, I think,
the son of a woman I used to see
on the Sunday dog walk.
Was his name Matthew?
I think about my stepson,
dead these ten years now,
and turn into the wind.

© Rachel Green 2018