One day I’ll forget you
And will walk by the loch
Alone and serene.
The cup you drank from
Will hold tea again.
I will not find excuses
To say your name
And quote your thoughts and jokes.
I will paint walls you painted
Twelve years ago.
A thumb print will be just a smudge.
I will look at people we knew
And not see you beside them.
I won’t go through your pockets
And read those old receipts.
When I wake there will be no echo
Of your voice, your voice.
Your birthday will be
Just another day in March.
There will be no favourite meal, no toast.
I will pass through the town you died in
Thinking only of buses and trains.
Deirdre Carney enjoys her retirement living, reading and writing in a station house on the Far North Line in the Highlands of Scotland. She is currently writing a collection of poems inspired by memories of people who are no longer in her life.