It’s been forty three years

since we last conversed,

and over time

it’s better, not worse,

your face has faded

into memory,

and the lines are softer,

in history.



I do not know

where I’d find you today,

in a churchyard

back home,

the people say.

Without a headstone,

plaque,

or cross,

to take you home,

to mark the spot.



You did not see

how my life became -

sometimes I was glad

in years of pain,

that you didn’t see how

they spat me out,

when no-one was there-

through the shadows of doubt.



But, through it all I imagined

your voice,

whatever my plan,

whatever my choice.

Whatever I ran from,

or was running to,

you were cheering me on

to see me through.



Copyright Suzy Davies 8th November, 2015