On this opal morning

I miss my mum.

If she was in the kitchen

making coffee,

everything would be alright.

We’d have plain chocolate digestives.

Dip the smiling edges till

the chocolate melted

warm as love.

In an Ealing garden apples trees

would be clad in pink and white

clothes hang on a sagging line

propped by a cloven branch.

A...

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