Walking on Water ~~ anna hood

I float roses on the snow.
The wind catches them
tosses them onto the bed
where Oriental poppies sleep
like you.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ I whisper,
‘it is only the wind.’
It lifts my skirt
the poplar trees shiver.
‘Shall I sing for you
as I scatter petals on your grave?’

This morning I sat
in your chair. You’d look
out the window when you’d write
watch the birds. They still wait for you
with your bucket of seed.
You knew their names, their calls;
you could read the map of the sky
painted on their wings.

In my wallet – photos
a lock of hair – a wish.
My hair is short now
some grey, the colour of a nuthatch,
mixed into the blonde.
You’d like it, I think.

Do you know
there are eight million Shinto deities,
That sometimes now I walk on water?
Do you know I miss you?