Marigold Moon

yesterday is the full moon,
filling the empty window
of my grandfather’s room,
sliding down the gold clip
on his favourite fountain pen,
his dentures smiling wildly
in the silver glow;

yesterday is marigold fields,
stretching soft arms
towards the stream,
you and I, dark specks of pollen,
waiting in the orange sunset haze,
for the cover of butterfly wings,
for a chance to live;

yesterday is me, crumpled
on the smooth sheets of his bed,
the pillow smelling of his wrinkles,
the chair creaking in his voice,
sobbing with the bare walls,
where your shadow should have cried,
next to mine;

yesterday is the grit in my eye,
swimming in one swollen red tear,
while you soar
with newly petalled wings,
that moon,
now free to kiss
your yellow dusted lips;

yesterday is the blackened stain,
of leaked ink,
of words that never were;
yesterday is the russet fly-whisk,
moving over the last breath
of a present
that can never be.