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The tiny pink glove

offers warmth, even now.

Her hand could have been cosy in there

shaking off the snow.

She’d be skating, about now.

Her look of shock and delight

would spread to my face too,

as she slipped.

But she’d know I’d grasp her hand

in the pink glove.

She’d wait for her white gold

to be brushed away, about now.

I can see the silent wind playing

that snow flake on her nose.

Forever young

I could see it all in her eyes.

No disguise, no lies.

More snow would settle on her coat,

drawn to her aura.

The coloured lights meant everything

to her. Magic and safety

in her little heart.

So many songs unsung.

So many snowflakes, since then,

have fallen to the ground, through that little space

that was her.  

Time has told me to place the plastic bag

with the garbage men.

Will they know what’s in there?

A picture of dragons, expertly

and proudly drawn with brown crayon.

A koala, badly torn, but loved.

And a pink glove. Too fragile

to beat the grinder.

The neighbours can see me cry.

I don’t care as I stumble to the

road looking for the whole of her life

in that plastic bag.

Oh how I cry when I see the

garbage truck dash away

through the snow. I can’t write the last line……

© Dave Hughes