Anne

We stand with her remains, sworn at by the jetty, she'd lie awake awaiting trains, if she could hear our moans, would diss our useless levies, scatter instead holy water, thank these blessed days, neither disturbed nor easy, by a morphine driver’s flame, the manner of her tone, another Liverpool tributary, a voice calm without stones , more a silk worm trail, mass cards from yellow monasteries, a promise to return home, money given was not a loan, just as she crossed the estuary she’d never ask for more, we bow to the morning ferry.