Your torch makes the rain
which plunges to its death
like fireflies
plunging to their death
not that I’ve seen fireflies
I suspect this is where we might find them
in the forest
or by the box of giraffe toys
or the football shirt you got me
before I knew my times tables
we had something in common
it brushed my knees when I wore it
I turn in the mud
thinking of excuses
for the mother who hates you
leave my parcel,
your parcel, of things
in a shallow grave
moulded from mud,
cardboard sagging in the rain.
Follow Summer on Twitter at @MissYoungWriter and on Instagram at @summerrbelle.
