‘sorry,’ you said, ‘for not ringing you back,
not letting you know i wouldn’t be there.
it was family.’ it was the same track
repeated, record scratched beyond repair
skipping back to the same point in my life
when your accent first cracked my jaded air
to let the warm in like a cosy knife.
you told me of your world, strange northern ways,
your children, other lover and your wife.
there have been other visits, other days.
they come like music, bloom and fade to black.
i press ‘repeat’ again, and voicemail plays
your dated, short and disappointing track.
‘sorry,’ you said, ‘for not ringing you back.’