He rented a van for his stuff and sent their son,
who is good at manoeuvring, to do the heavy lifting.
Cycling gear, unseen in the outhouse, was forgotten
in the to and fro of cutlery and paperwork.
Bikes, for which there was no room in his new life,
cluttered the next few years -
grazing her shins, blocking access to other things,
moved impatiently from side to side.
On a low shelf, unremarked, a sports bag
filled with lycra, energy bars and, in a side pocket,
a necklace, hidden like a child's guilty secret,
waiting to be revealed.
1.04.24, Wales
Poetry by Sylvia Fairclough 