The Doll

I woke up with my arm round my wife,

the clock somewhere between four and five,

slipped out of bed and dressed in the dark.

Paused for the rhythm of her breathing,

quick-quick-slow across the landing,

muffled the door, set off for the park,

where night had turned off all the colours –

grey-black grass and grey-black flowers.

The swings took the piss out of the gallows

and the climbing frame held up the sky.

No child swung and no child climbed.

I found her stretched beneath the willows:

about the size of a healthy baby,

dress somewhere between a sneeze and a hankie,

here-and-now lips and elsewhere eyes.

Each cheek was red as a stop sign,

on her wood wood face on wood wood bones.

Who could have left her here? Who could have known?

In the crook of my arm I carried her home,

as dawn painted its watercolour,

made a sundial of each street light.

Before I got back I’d have to drop her

and never never make mention of her,

or of the reasons I walk out at night.