We sat on a sofa the colour of dark cherries, deeper than burgundy.
Next to no blossom left on the trees outside.
I watched the flowers on the peach tree fall; how slowly they blossomed, how quickly they died.
A fall from the grace - they uttered no cry but went gently, quietly, like the lifting of clouds, a sight made of sighs.
Inside the house my brother sits at his laptop; 18 years old and still a little boy playing at being Cuchulain.
Battle sounds from his laptop.
War is such a human thing.
You shouldn't have to see so much death in life.
I say nothing
and outside the world is dying, dying, dead
and here, now, presently, my mother's skin stretches under my fingertips
and a palamino balloon bobs on the carpet,
and we sit in a room with dappled walls
on a sofa the colour of dark cherries.
The distant country of home.
The half-forgotten star of memory.
The softly falling blackness that is the night.
I am tired.
I have been to the end of the world and back and now I know the last hope of all the lost children and why some people smile with sad eyes and why crushed flowers have no names.
And I have seen the blossom fall.
It is a sight made of sighs
and in it walks a girl in a long, black coat, tired, like a memory.