This one was particular:
chose black leather, lippy for trips
to Exeter, wore Kirby grips in her hair.
At breakfast she ate porridge
from a gleaming dish, with swirls of cream
and demerera dimpling the surface.
Etched juice glasses, thin as petals,
radiated pulp and crush..
Please picture her
in a navy Guernsey,
her purposeful gait as she moved uphill,
(windfalls pocketed for the ponies) -
the confluence of cells and chance
that seeds our childhood miracles -
for the song of her is singing still
weaving close the decades,
showing us the liberty of being.