Imogen from Pepper Hill
This story is about to kill
A sparkling daughter, twenty-one
Grand, sincere, forever gone
Nurse Love, she cut the cord in two
Father’s face a squeamish blue
Mother’s sweaty forehead facing
The queen incarnate, heart embracing
Freebie magnets on the fridge
Clarinet, near-perfect pitch
Private school, double kiss
Dental metal, Latin wiz
Ever-spinning record player
Leather jacket, custom layer
Music talk and lava lamps
Looking forward to the dance
April day, hidden rain
Horseshoe tunnel, broken lane
Velvet wind and velvet-eyed
Dump your Vespa, hitch a ride
Stunning seldom solitude
Everybody loves the boots
Wond’ring will there be a bus
Yellow plates approaching fast
Imogen strapped to a bench
Cerebrum numb, uncommon stench
Polaroids on the walls
The creature wearing overalls
The cabin cooked, the image raw
Mr Newton grabs a saw
Format, focus, flash and flicker
Exposure time, a busy clicker
Mum and dad on their own
Circling the landline phone
Neighbours printing ‘Have You Seen Me?’
Imogen is on the TV
Nestle in the cluster with the
Garlic flowers, wee small hours
A bed of rusty red, shape shattered
Teeny tiny pieces scattered
German shepherds start to cry
Law enforcement horrified
Tolponds Road, the path is slippy
Hair in her face, the perfect hippie
Doorbell rings, they brought the priest
Imogen was found deceased
Timelapse, OBE
Downfall of the bourgeoisie
Careful colleagues dropping meals off
Trying to be extra soft
Dad’s newsboy cap rests on a stool
No need to fill the garden pool
Boardgame shelf collecting dust
Someone take the dog, adjust
Kitty sleeping in the closet
Tins of untouched Easter chocolate