David Coldwell


That year we gave up on summer. The

wettest drought in history some said but

no one here was listening. The grass will need a cut,

you said, as the first leaves began

to fall and the birds began to gather

on the wires to prepare for their journeys.



The taxi arrived early and you worried

that it would cost a small fortune if

we didn’t make a move. I carried you

out past the overgrown grass covered

in leaves that were turning to muck in

the rain. Blackberries still clung to the


naked brambles where a piece of sheep’s

wool had caught on the thorns. The

birds had gone and in the quiet of the day

our breathing became deafening.

The stop/start of footsteps, of the engine,

of the windscreen wipers that cleared the glass.


You never looked back. And I don’t know what

you were thinking as I asked to stop

outside the school gates so that I could breathe.

The water in the leaves soaked

through my soles and I wondered how

we had ever got to this point.


Nothing is ever made good. You said

bright clothes, big smiles and the best party in

town. You wanted that song by Harold Melvin

and the Blue Notes for a laugh.

You only ever cried at the good things.

Sorry, I spoke but was unable to finish.


David Coldwell is an artist and writer based in the village of Marsden in West Yorkshire. His poems have featured in a number of print and on-line journals. 

http://davidcoldwell.co.uk : www.facebook.com/davidcoldwellart



More of Davids work can be found in Volume 9