By: Harry Lowery

Departures

losing CO₂ in the Jet2 queue,
staining Carhartt with heartache,
barcodes beep & promises pall

between staff & sightseers
& parents cheering up children
& new lovers arriving
chinos & eyes empty
into a grey tray, passing
Saint Peter with an automatic
& cutting through pictureless clouds
to arrivals, you were waiting,
& you opened your arms, like wings

Ashes

you knew from her fourteen missed calls –
gut churning from fourteen Moretti, heavy
heartbeats hitting chest, hissing at screenlight
to unlock Mam until you heard each word –
“his eyes said, ‘I’ve had enough,’”
death blurred the Ibis wood, the door
you knelt before, your throat swollen
with his sleep in York – Dad’s manspeak
hid the hangover & hollow
on changed trains, Leeds to Lancaster:
the way the sun shone over Long Preston,
the way you feel lost after loss,
a beach, Hard to Find, windows –
then one Saturday, cradling urn,
footprints eclipsed other pawprints
to the surf, & sighing speech
you spread his ashes at his favourite place,
watching them wash away in the waves

Villa Diodati

like a leaf, you were ambered,
acquiescent, ambling the grounds –
gravel crunched with Converse
& a tableaux daydream:
Byron sailing, or the Shelleys
in love – & then, the villa doors
unveiled untouched antiques
& portraits eyeing every word
like the porcelain it was spoken over –
& sobering outside, ringtones
revealed Omicron will part you,
for months or more, before
the sun left for another city,
& the stars began to emerge
with the shyness of spiders

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Harry Lowery is a writer from Newcastle upon Tyne and a Master’s graduate in Creative Writing (Distinction) from Lancaster University. Recipient of the 2021/2022 Portfolio Prize, he has honed his craft under acclaimed writers like Paul Muldoon.