When Harry went away
he stole a part of Mum.
No-one warned us.
We looked and looked for ages –
under sofas, in the back of drawers – found plenty that he’d left behind,
the greyer days, an empty bed,
a hurting heart (a wee bit fluffy where the dust had stuck).
He’d always been quite good at hiding bits and bobs –
pilfered toffee, other people’s books.
We drew a blank.
Tried to bargain.
Offered up his favourite song,
a wish balloon, a kiss each night,
a toast on Christmas Day,
but Harry took that tiny piece of Mum,
which seemed too high a price for us to pay.