i still find her
on the sill
in the dying
birthday flowers – near to faded,
pretty in the thirsty vase.
her stray hair in the bath,
her scrawl on some scrap paper –
her receipt, screwed in denim
pocket and breathe her for a moment,
forever, her surprising sillage
as I pass the chair she favoured,
i hear the songs; of course, her laugher
but, her fragrance surprises most:
her ghost, its permanence.