It was the colour of the kingfisher that I recalled most clearly:

the grainy blue-green hue imperfectly contained in frayed lead lines.

It came to mind when they returned its weight to me:

some swooping bright image, perched on a river-side stump.

And I thought of your bones, and this book:

all I had of you, heavier than the bones of you,

but really only just a papery ghost of you.

I soon felt the true meaning:

The only meeting place we’d ever had

was at the page where the blue-green

bird was sat.