Leaves on a Tree.

It’s brought up,

that time,

in the regurgitation of your past

as it falls down the toilet bowl.

In passing comments,

brief,

like little jabs with pins

or a swift burn on the top of the oven.

You can’t cremate the past

and blow it away

with a typical blustery British wind.

A typical English family,

not the last in England

but one of them.

We cling together,

pale leaves on a tree,

whimpering and dying out,

falling one by one

onto an urban cracked ground.

You fell first,

you fell with pills in your hand

and tears in your eyes.

You fell for him

years before

and he repays you

by raping your trust

and shredding your confidence

while enjoying the heat

in the Mediteranian.

Did he ever think of us?

You keened, a wild animal,

destroyed by a sight you couldn’t forget

of young firm tits,

a smiling face

and an exotic background.

Why didn’t he take you,

try and make it work

instead of an easier,

more ego stroking option?

You can only leave him

by falling off our tree

into a soft wind

of whispers and clouds.

It wasn’t the end

and thank God for that

because I love you

and you broke my heart.

My leaf fell too,

the family split in two.

Now there is one less perfect family

in England.