I cannot believe that she was my dressing gown
Madeline McCann was lying
as a pile of crumpled flannel
under the haze of the drizzle
of the morning’s curtain smog.
The fabric folded around her
face, pleating blonder hair
around the heavy hand resting
on her concave cheek.
She lay like a statue. A toppled
-don’t say fallen, she was never
fallen- statue. Don’t, there was
no sediment. There was no dust.
I did nothing.