I take her belongings into the garden.
Small vests, tiny mittens, a white shawl.
Fog colours the morning like white noise, though
the bonfire’s heart burns red and reassuring.
Warmth seeps from my fingers
as I feed her clothes to a passionate other.
A proud, fierce surrogate who bears no grudges,
nor mocks with memories of what might have been.
If you have any comments on this poem, Andrea Bowd would
be pleased to hear from you.