Willow

She lies in a separate shadowy space, that is largely unattended. Cut off from the world in death as in life. Covered by a comfortless blanket of angry thorns that – like him – seek blood if approached incorrectly. From the wrong direction, on the wrong day, at the wrong moment, one second too soon, lacking the right answer. (Which she rarely seemed to possess) Sad, headless stems in small pots with faded ribbons fall at her feet – as she did at his. Each time the last. Each time the last. And at her head a struggling willow. It’s potential, like hers, slowly choked away from lack of care. Wind, rain, sun and time all now conspire to strip away a little more of her name each day. Soon leaving all to wonder who she was. She lies in a separate shadowy space, that is largely unattended.