As the black cars glide down the hill

why are you at my shoulder laughing?

And I can’t help but smile to be here

in this flash limousine, a pale bride

in her solemn, slow parade, as you mock

these faces, “playing at funerals”.

Back home, all the glum faces gone, the kids –

expressionless – watch TV. In our room,

dumbfounded, I stroke your plastic lighter

into life, over and over, outstaring

each frail flame. A faceless ghost, the pillow

still holds your head’s form; now I rest my own

in that selfsame space, trying to make sense

of a different pronoun and a different tense.

Jill Sharp, Essex