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leaving the slices of sunshine on the windowsill
and where the early breeze breathes leaves and earth through thin curtains
and the magpies yodel calling for mince
and the rattle of cups in the sink

and leaving the place where she used to read
in the late afternoon the turning pages
flicking away the minutes the light in her hair
bright and white and familiar blue veins in her thin arms
that tremble beneath the book
later the moths fight for a place against the lamp
in the late light finding a place to die for as she dozes

and leaving that stain on the carpet and the thumping runs
of feet across the boards and the sprawled teddy
memory’s corpse
and the sticky cheeks
and the milo-ed breath and the love

and leaving the smoke rolling up the hill
boiling and blue
and the orange appetite beneath it
the loco fire that roars and stops nowhere
and waits for no-one he must leave they say
and desert himself and everything
but now nothing matters more than the sunshine
running like warm wetness down the wall
his first taste every morning of a life that …
he must leave …..