The stories we heard about Nina,
how she’d walk out half way
through a gig for no reason at all.
After her death we found out how ill
she’d been, but it didn’t stop us loving
her and the ache in her voice.
She taught us that a fist can block
out the sun, but it shines anyway.
The summer light illuminates
a red party dress hanging in the window.
You were his little darling, so much
trust wasted in the bullets of his hands.
Poem – Copyright Naomi Woddis 2010