Your dad looked like he did the day I saw him
on the road; gesturing to the trees.
I dreamed I asked him Does grief change you
as you get older? He looked at his hands,
rye-textured, and asked me what I thought.
But I’ve always seen grief as small triangles,
sharp colour, drawn with strong lines.
My recurring dream since childhood –
two rectangles rubbing together to create colour
that feels like an itch in your throat.
The geometrical beauty of low winter sun
is that everyone’s shadow is a bow compass.