All the poor clothes

bundled in bags,

stuffed into a tin drum,

would not fit.

I left them by the side,

but a brute shouted that I


unload them – piece by piece.

Your little market things,

the pretty cardigans

we celebrated and cooed over,

all stuffed in,

harshly, cruelly.

But you did not care,

no need for them -  ever.

Only yesterday I passed that car park

once again,

saw how the purple and green,

the fluffy cardigan

had fallen to the bottom,

was squeezed and crushed,

had crawled out of the churn,

to lie sodden in the mud and rain,

as if trying to reach you,

lying alone in the cold candlelight.

How I should have taken it up and

given it you to keep you warm.

Heather Gatley

Heather Gatley is a retired English Literature teacher. Born in Cyprus to British parents, she has lived and worked all over the world.  She currently resides in Taipei. Relatively new to publishing, her work has appeared in the online magazine, Proximity, volume 1; Scarlet Leaf Review; The Carmarthen Journal and Centered on Taipei.


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