Friday, 3 February 2017

poetry 2017 / 027

A Lump in the Throat

The scent of frankincense
on the early evening air.
Windows are open. The sound of traffic
in the distance lost in the closer drone
of lavender bees and wood pigeons.
You body dusted with sweat, drying in the heat
and leaving tiny circles of salt.
Albinoni on the record player
and a lazy trail of smoke
from the cigarette between your lips.
Still early, but the sun sends shadows
racing across the lawn,
longer and longer until they are taken by the gloaming
and the distant streetlight flickers on.
You rise, and a line of ash rolls from your clavicle
as you speak:
“I have to go home.”
“Home is where the love is,” I reply
and you laugh: “Just not here.”

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