The rain set early in to-night,
as I stood beneath the willow tree.

Polly still carved into the wood.
I like to come back and scratch
another mark for our anniversary,
another flick of the knife for
a year that you should have been
alive. You used to set a camp-fire
under this very tree, just to keep
me warm, even if the wood was wet.

There was a blackness to the smoke
that night, only three years ago,
and a lack of warmth in the fire.
Your eyes gave you away,
and you didn't even need
to say a word. There was stone
in them, deeply engrained
with bitter cuts from endless rains.

I will never know his name, but
the actions that I took would be the same.
I pulled a dangling willow branch
and wound it tight around your throat,
until your body was as cold as your stare,
cold like Medusa, grey like Athena.
Now you live on in my mind
like a statue in my private gallery