Nestling
She’d driven back at eighty-five
and snapped at Sue.
Later there’d been tears.
She watched herself wiping the face,
saying the right words, smothering
the child that was left.
Later she stood in his bedroom,
between the things not taken.
She fingered books, odd socks,
his lucky conker,
the little Hoopoe bird he’d made
from slats of wood.
Planed, featherless, with black dot eye
staring back through the years.
She laid its dove-tailed body
on his pillow, tucked the duvet tight.
Then tiptoed out
and closed the door.