I walk with him upon a stretch of sand; as ever, it is night.
Striding ahead in that old black coat of his,
he will not turn, and yet I would know his face.
He keeps to the path, which is narrow, and now and then
Sends sparks to the left or the right – die or ignite –
the red and then the blue.
You know who we are, he says.
As you decreed, the fight was to the death.
Thus did we bleed, her jaws around my neck, my flame in her throat:
We loved, but we always knew this to be our fate.
Our orders, if you please.
Linda still lives on a windswept island off the coast of Kent with a variable number of cats – currently twelve. She’s been writing poetry since the age of thirteen when she embarrassed her mother by getting a dreadful one published in the newspaper. It began ‘Spring throws bluebells in the sky…’