In a mourning dream my sister-in-law,
newly widowed, arrives from Lincolnshire.
We circle round the kitchen table, each
sheltering grief, a pocket clock hidden deep,
clicking like a metronome, always off-sync.
We exchange stories, unwrapping each gift.
She says, after running errands in town,
they’d rendezvous, throughout the years, below
Big Ben. She’d ride a bike into the crescent
of his smile. Under the cast-iron bulwark
of the bell tower the chimes magnify.
They would hold tight, pose for the camera.
Against the backdrop of the wall she flashes
snapshots: their secret laughs, his auburn hair,
her rotating attire (sky-blue shift dress,
brimmed hat; dove grey seersucker and kid gloves)
while high above, outside the frame, bells stop,
the hands arrested, always six o’clock.