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Do you still go to the magpie store
with the vintage fur coats
and jewellery-laden drawers

Do you still talk in hieroglyphs and wit
from books you’ve read
and films full of pith

Christ, can we just have a conversation
where money and ambition fall away
There’s a garden full of sweet pea and carnations
We’ll lie out on the grass there someday, someday

my Mrs Dalloway
my Mrs Dalloway
sketching women in summertime cafes
so reluctant to go home

Do you still cry as you pull into the drive
thinking ‘God, is this it --
what it means to be alive’

Do you still paint every Sunday when you wake
I recall you used to point out
every subtle flawed mistake

I still don’t know the names of constellations
or the true circumference of the Earth
but Christ, can we just have a conversation
where you are self-endowed with silver worth

my Mrs Dalloway
my Mrs Dalloway
sketching women in summertime cafes
so reluctant to go home