Wednesday, 5 April 2017

poetry 2017 / 043


Evening fire
as the gloaming fades into true dark
and the deepening velvet
reveals the the presence of other suns
and orbiting satellites.

Companionable silence
among the crackle of pine
from the Welsh dresser of your grandmother's
the deep heavy exhale of the oak table
your mother's holly candlesticks, whistling.

A flare of green from an old box
the pewter goblets, the copper headband
you wore in the woodland ceremony
on our petal-strewn wedding day.

My ring doesn't burn but distorts
as your cotton summer dresses
send plumes of ash
underlit with orange into the sky.

And the accoustic guitar he gave you
sings its last melody.

No comments: