Someone had died and it was Summer.
The funeral black items danced white on my retina
in the overkill of light.
I tried to find your hand
when the grown ups fell quiet
and the deceased was carried out of the house.
A black bird sang.
A woman tried to find comfort in your eyes.
You looked at the yellow blossom on the coffin
more intensely and with more love
than you looked at her, away from her face,
though she was crying and the blossom
stayed indifferent for kindness.
Later I realised you once were friends.
Why do we do the things we do,
and for whom are we to be so cruel?