Allowed by Morag Burnard – 1st Prize 2020

She reaches for a hand, no longer there,

turns slowly the worn golden band,

as if it might summons the past.

She is under the covers,

cold in her grief.

A lifetime spent together,

a death spent apart.

Sinewy feet placed on the floor,

cold, they arch against it.

Looking down, her nails,

bright paint, ‘Scarlet Ibis’ the colour he liked,

now chipped and faded.

She switches on the kettle,

setting down their mugs,

and remembers.

Making both anyway,

shrugs away the criticism,

ignoring the searing ache, it causes not to hand him,

the mug with the scratched picture of the dog,

they lost,

long ago.

Sat at the breakfast bar he,

proudly built,

that left the kitchen table redundant.

She clasps the drink with both hands,

hoping for comfort,

none.

She could not be there,

even if he could not hear,

she was not,

allowed,

to hold his hand and tell him,

all the things they got right,

and wrong.

And mostly how she loved him.

Now, her hand has no partner.

No human touch is offered,

it is not allowed.

No fitting goodbye,

with their children,

and long held friends.

The doorbell, breaks her thoughts,

she rises,

slowly,

walks,

to the door.

A long-loved silhouette,

a piece of glass,

and a rule,

between comfort and solace.

‘Mum, it’s me,

let me in!’ her daughter’s voice,

broken and sad,

like it has been on the phone.

She replies faltering,

innocent,

like a child told they cannot go out,

to play.

‘My darling, I would love nothing more,

but,

I am not allowed.’