Alistair Wilkinson Author
Alistair WilkinsonAuthor

Sixth Day, 30th March

I woke up to darkness. Clocks have sprung forward  

and the rain gives chase; a million billion Slender Mans 


A mistake on the paper round and eldest is angry at himself  

and the world. The car coughs, cold, cut off.  

Just me and eldest, the streets to ourselves on a Monday morning.  

The wipers’ slow smudge of lowering grey.  


Drive on for warmth, the engine, eldest and me,  

to see what we might see.  


By the afternoon it’s cold, winter’s fingers drip and paw  

like the bare branches of the willow in a corner of the cemetery 


I take youngest; we’re on our bikes, past the chapel,  

the first avenue of graves.  

At the back new pathways and plots reach to the crematorium.  

The pathways are empty. Cycle around, our orbit brings  

us close to smaller stones, bright and colourful, Superman  

and Sponge Bob. Youngest slows, turns his head.  

How do children die? he said. 


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