Catriona Yule
© Catriona Yule 2010
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Real Time
Catriona Yule
In her anorak-home,
a hood to cower
from the rain.
In this haven,
she breathes droplets,
moistens the night's blanket.
In the black she can hear
that tick in her head:
Come home, Petal,
come home.
She imagines them reading,
gripping the letter:
ink,
words, wrecked.
They'll put it back
in the torn envelope,
then take it out:
again and again.
But it won't make sense.
She'll be back for tea.
Congealed:
the bacon strips
flounder on a plate.
A clock's arm crashes.
Ten —
a broken mantelpiece.
In the black the face,
her real father's watch:
a tiny clocked universe,
like a moon's full belly
dilating seconds:
come home, Petal,
come home.
Published in Northwords Now Issue 4, 2006
(Northwords Now)
and in Shedding Skin, 2007
(Koo Press)
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