SAD

Like wet fog creeping in, like a foghorn’s
expiring wail, repeating repeating, like sky
deprived of a single chink of light, wide sweep
of solitary grey. Sad like furniture left out for
anyone to take away, an old sofa covered in
stretchy tan crepe soaked to its spongey insides.
Sad like late Sundays, dark-morning Mondays
when you heave aside the dead weight of Not
again so you can rise. Sad like the old car that
carried you everywhere giving up, half eaten
by rust. Sad like the body ageing, skin loose as
worn tights, like garden plants after a freeze.
Sad like a grown child or a lover leaving home
lost under boxes and bags, some familiar object
poking out, something that will always belong
in the left-behind place with the left-behind one
who’s closing the door even now and this sad
is sad like the end of all you wanted never to end.

Chrissy Banks lives in Exeter and co-hosts Uncut Poets at the Phoenix and Uncut Online. Her second collection,The Uninvited, is available from Indigo Dreams and a pamphlet, Frank, from Smith/Doorstop. She won third prize in the Bridport Poetry Competition, 2024, and first prize in the Ironbridge Poetry Competition, 2025. Her poems have appeared recently in Penumbra, Frosted Fire, and Under the Radar.