Alice, at last

there's no sense pretending it's better than it is

lie there and die

in your last lucid moments you look around

bewildered

a wild spirit horse stamps upon your chest

his huge face in slow motion coming down

your family bicker above you as you sink, rise, sink

you are a box kite made by your dancing husband

you float far above the streets

out over the valley

a mile or more

so much dead string now

reeling in radio messages

from back then, way back then

running up bombed sidestreets for milk

in 1941 Liverpool

and the ferries still running

I was a clippy

you announce

the tram-brakes shriek down the Liverpool hills

a clippy in green for the Jazz dancing

when he came back on leave from the convoys

burning the Alaskas out of his head

with wolfpack beer warm as dry blood

on the font at St John's

the string cut, the kite falling soft

a mile away, miles away

down into the valley bottom

all your stories landing, coming home

running up Whitby Street

carrying milk through the bricks

milk that passed on through the bombs

to that day

when the kite flew over it all

dropping only itself

upon your coffin

sliding into the curtain

to the convoy fires

of the last Liverpool Atlantic

.