It would be inaccurate to say
I remember chalk springs
and water meadows.
Memory implies they no longer live inside me,
shaping my future,
the clarity of the water chilling my bones.
I can never forget them
or the colour of the foliage
or the too-soon long walk home.
in response to a tweet from @londonlitlab 15/07/21
When Clara opened the door five years ago and let me in, a man was singing opera in another room. It’s the painter, she said, and said no more.
We sipped coffee from delicate white cups and I wondered what sort of artist would sing as he created. Clara flushed and called me bourgeois, incapable of understanding that even workers could appreciate fine things. He was painting the walls.
My cup tipped in its saucer as I lowered it towards the fine lace mat. I righted it and Clara flushed again. Her grandmother had had the sight and saw the future in the grounds.
You should leave, she said.
I did not see her again until a moment ago outside the pavement café. She was pushing a pram and I raised my cup to salute her. She did not respond. Perhaps she did not see me. I did not stand.
the sky cracked a little
and hope shone in
your hand on my back we look forward
and hear the blackbirds sing
the woman standing at the bus stop
with two empty cat-carrier cases
is not making eye contact with the world
winds freshen, a first spitting
still you are not here
we were distant
but our hearts quickened the same
in my mind
I breathed your breath
I was thinking of you
and a hummingbird flew into the kitchen.
I had to tell you.
the you-shaped space within my arms
aches my chest with emptiness
soon? one day? it is all unknown
sunrise streaks yellow
breeze from the sea to the mountains
the first drops of autumn
I slipped in the shower
thinking of you
I tripped on the staircase
thinking of you
I think I can now quite unsafely say
I’ve fallen for you