When I saw the car, there,
as I walked past in my new life,
I felt for unfound keys in pockets,
put bags down, looking at my feet,
and life fell out onto the street,
spilling time, not mine, not now,
but then, but how could my car
be where then was there?
The bed, left like mine, here
where I have been before,
not here but just next door,
the bottles that sixteen years ago
would have queued up like these,
left below the sink, our favourite drink,
spill time, not mine,
Another’s, who was yesterday
asleep where I will sleep today.
I follow footsteps I have left behind
unbinding traces of another time.
Cherry Coombe 