I still think of her, my nearly daughter,
who got things wrong way round
and died before she lived.
Clare Elisabeth. Sometimes I see her
in my dream.Always the same.
A busy street. She’s standing on the kerb ,
waiting to cross.
In her late thirties now
with thick ,dark hair,her mother’s eyes.
A clever woman, happy in her skin.
The road is full of cars.
She glances left and right
then looks across at me, bemused,
as though she couldn’t quite recall my name,
or where we’d met.
I raise my arm to wave, but then
a big black truck comes to a stop
between us. When I can look again