I have been struck by lightning, twice,
once in the neck, once in the Trossachs.
I crawled out of a crash with whiplash
and made a bleeding, limping dash
across the border. Armed guards fired.
I've stowed away on boats and planes
and jumped from high-speed, foreign trains.
You keep the curtains closed all day
and never come out before dark.
It's a wonder we ever met.
I found you wandering the streets
like Aphrodite in a nightie.
I've been in fights, been read my rights.
I changed my surname by deed poll
and still got chased by Interpol.
I've phoned from every call box,
mailed cards from every post box,
just to tell you, 'I'm on my way
and getting closer every day.'
When I crawl up your garden path,
your mum tells me to go away.
I can't go on, I can't go back.
When you wake in the morning
you will find me dead on your doorstep.
(Previously published at the Festival for Poetry.)
O how we followed her so
for here were tequila shots
and trivia nights
so finely served to us
on the finest of social
media sites I think we ignored
the sadness effervescing
weekly into her curly hair
And didn't we take her word
as gold for there were tigers
under story-beds and a blog of
quality cuss words
I think we deafened ourselves
to the off twitter of some distant gun
For pain is a door into the soul
For we thought she invited us in
O Heather words
of Heather wine glass stemless
Penelope-Heather
5K runner Heather sky of
Heather blue-eyed Heather
the things we lost in the war
of Heather the fire
of overwintered Heather
our wife our Heather yoga sister
how we longed to be
Heather to follow Heather
migration patterns
cook Heather paleo-cups
to wear a tiara as only
the how-to of Heather could
For here we are abruptly
without her nothing
but the salient silence
of absence
A disappearing ghoul
of our incommunicado
Heather tomorrow
For the myth of Heather
For a friend is a stranger
