On the day he left me I bought a pair of purple shoes
no heel and pale stitching over the toe, a buckle there
to pull myself together and they were not supposed to be purple
but grey I thought, grey or a non-colour.
But when I asked my children they said purple and I looked
again at my feet and saw them stained with blackberry juice
left two weeks in the sun to bleach,
like little thunderclouds bruising over the floorscape I was walking
purpling my steps the day he left me.

& I thought it fit that there was no heel
to turn on,
no pedestal for me, dethroned,
to show my feet the way he liked
no glossy blackened slingback glory -
instead a sensible, low, well-stitched pair of walk-away shoes.
Sensible in every way
except the purple.