The Wishbone

On the windowsill
its white paint old
and flaking,
was a wishbone,

a pewter pot beside it
that my mother said
was from home.
Moss mould was

on the edges of glass
and on the outside
the perpetual dark
of weeds gone wild.

There was a wishbone
on the windowsill,
it was huge like a dinosaur’s,
yellow and stained

with the ghost of blood.
A pterodactyl bone,
a pagan bone,
the fundament of a roc.

It was there for years
while round it the house
fell apart. It’s still there
in a shelf of my mind.

No one did.
No one-dared really.