A lover of sandstone and chocolate, Pam lives on a small island off the south coast of England with her partner and assorted ‘book boyfriends’. She is currently querying her debut novel while working on her second, and writing poetry, flash fiction and short stories for relaxation. Come say hello to her on Twitter @princesspamma

What I remember when I hear “Promise” by Ben Howard

And I know this room so very well and its granite windowsill
bare but for the jam jar bearing wilting bluebells
dying defiantly in greening water. It never
quite
closes,
that window with the scrolling curve of its handle blistered
and flaking, rust bleeding inexorably through the final hopeful coat of paint.
Still wet when you left. Shivered by the sussuration of your swift sure steps
as you swept across the slates –
paused purposefully in the doorway looking back with flinty eyes –
then slammed the iron hard old door with all your stony strength. Your
punctuation pitch perfect, as always.
And the endless echoes of those last, lost months fill this silent, still space
and they swirl and they eddy and they surge
and they are swept up by frigid winds flooding through the never
quite
closed
window
and flung like pebbles up a stormy beach
where I collect them.
An orphan beachcombing imaginary treasures.