I stare at the page, try to dredge
sparkling simile, dramatic metaphor,
from the fruit and veg aisle of the local supermarket.
Yet, where there should be dark-skinned aubergines,
smooth, and shining as sin,
sceptred artichokes the size of a babies head,
or two-hued cauliflowers, snowy craniums enfolded,
I find only potatoes, cellophaned spinach
and mushrooms in cling-wrapped boxes.
Time’s up, you say, and I have
nothing – only these words, dug
fresh as young carrots from dark loam.
the elegance of leaves
the trees’ half century of lean
your presence beating ever
in the swan’s slow move
above the curve of river.
And what is life
but to look up and see the sky,
marvel still at its intensity.
Moments that will never come again,
time catches the kite tails
of our children soaring in the blue.
We have settled into the silt,
but they have life to fly,
break through the susurration
of leaves, tangle in trees.
They ghost the future for possibilities,
look up at the sky, still sharp and blue.
We are amazed at the adults they are;
still see the children they once were.
You gave me a glass
the trace of your fingers
warm to my touch.
As you poured
the wine slipped
towards the rim.
left an imprint
of my lips.
You took back the glass
Where mine had been.