After the treatment
you started to lose your hair.
Day after day
tufts came away,
baring your ears,
starting your tears.
One day in the garden
you showed me a twist
wound round your wrist
like a band of silver.
You shook the hair into the air;
it floated down
like dawn gossamer,
glinting in the sun.
‘The birds,’ you said,
‘will use it to line their nests.’