by Matthew Roberts
Going to church every Sunday
as a little child I would
play with my brother, then lean
against my motherâ€™s side and
drift off. Â In the colder months
mum would wear grandmotherâ€™s
expensive, ancient fur coat.
She was so warm and I would
smell her perfume in my dreams.
Now sheâ€™s gone and I am a man in the
same small town I grew up in.
I shoot animals in the head, in the hills.
Put my hands on them and stroke
the fur until the body goes cold.