Further poems after Three Colours: Synaesthesia, for which check out this link: https://jrhgreenwood.wordpress.com/2017/02/28/three-colours-synaesthesia/
Like a barely-opened bud, so tight
It almost fades from life, you wear
Around your eyes the last trace of him
What’s black and white, and red all over?
A joke about walking into a pub, and leaving
With half a rotten, broken tooth in your palm
Even when still, water echoes off tiles:
Clean and cool, all smooth, her ripples gone.
Your sunken child, as cold as porcelain.