Scouting out spots by looking through me
Rosie scrunched at the sign for Birch Tree Lane, stolen
Along with the bench from the council estate gardens
And at least three wooden pallets, stacked and chained.

She duly unplugged the sign from the heavy ground
And made to return it, all the while keeping my eye peeled –
I pick up phrases here and there –
For points in the landscape that fitted her jigsaw.
(To warily extend this: the top, bottom and sides
Were complete, but she was counting on a
Correct sort of jaggedness).

The project had been for a long time postponed,
Owing to the increased milkiness of her father’s left eye,
As well as her new found ability to drive – I have since been
Pointed at over a dozen scrapes, and even more shallow holes –
But all the equipment, although sagging, had been there,
Tilted on shelves (or maybe I had been left funny).

Either way, her preparedness was concrete mix,
Undeposited and so yet-to-set.

This village of hers glinted in the frothy spring light,
Meaning for me a familiar flare added to images of
Exhausted car parks and rotten memorial benches.

Diligently remembering for re-visitation,
I didn’t mind if she used someone else to make sure
It looked proper.

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