The Sunday Poem: You walk past (after Tsvetaeva) by Colin Bramwell

You walk past like I would,

your eyes pointing up

and away, as mine should –

but stranger, stop,

and rest your sullen

bouquet of orchids here.

Yes, my name was Colin –

and the year?

Ach – but here’s no grave. My ghost

won’t mock your reader’s frown.

I was prone to cracking jokes

that punched down.

Hair of an orangutan –

more below and less up top –

I too was pedestrian,

so, stranger, stop!

Pluck a thorn. Be bramble brave.

Go stain your hand in autumn’s.

The fruit that grows around the graves

is riper than all heaven’s.

Just don’t stare at your laces,

I ask this much of you.

Recalling me is basic –

forgetting me is too.

The sunlight’s sparks fly upwards –

stranger, how you shine!

Don’t be bothered by these words,

this buried mouth of mine.

Colin Bramwell is a writer and translator living in Edinburgh. His debut poetry collection, Fetch, will be published by And Other Stories later this year

Illustration by Chris Riddell