Posted in Creative Writing


I come home
and your faces float up at me
in the smoke from the veld fire,
in the dust displaced
as my feet pat the hardened,
gold-dust shaded earth.

I’m seeing red
gravel roads and one Sunday night
when you snuck out our window
with the only key.
I almost slept in the hallway.
You went to the beach.

I’m seeing sunset
from my third-floor window
laughter and the crash
of a rugby ball against the glass
to get my attention.
You didn’t need my attention.

I’m seeing the glare
of the afternoon sun
and sweating slightly
on our uphill walk after school.
and we talked about…
I don’t remember what
Maths, I guess. Maybe the news.

There was more,
there are so many more voices
that sing to me, wordlessly
in the autumn wind.
Sometimes I catch the whispers –
remember me.

I do remember.
sometimes your faces are sellotaped
to the characters on my screen.
I’m not seeing ghosts,
I’m seeing snapshots
of happiness, my happiness

only in memories


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