It must be genetic, Jack thought when he saw his Venus in blue jeans. He smiled. He had known her forever. Genetic. It was in her jeans
To sweeten your mouth
To sweeten your mouth from the aftertaste of cherry and of me
I offer you mango;
But then your tears at the stone, the soul of the fruit.
Poets in pyjamas
Poets in pyjamas
Autumn’s open fires
Warmth that surrounds us
Cats stretch and uncurl
Books and pens and papers lie now abandoned
Your hands
Glass half full
Jamie’s a glass half full kind of guy. Except his is half full of whisky, rain and many, too many, tears.
Chill summer gale
Come sweet zephyrs of the southern seas,
Come flattering breaths of gentle gods to ease us on our way – No?
No, we must remember our place and it is here,
Remember our place and hirple head down into the teeth of the chill summer gale.
Edinburgh 01 June
You folded me
You folded me in your wings and I felt safety.
My heartbeat echoed your heart, and slowed.
There is always time for ever.
Blue irises
Dev’s failing eyes read the news on his phone. ‘I was painting blue irises in my garden this morning.’ And immediately he was there again, in the sunshine garden, watching her as she painted, her blue eyes fixed on the flowers, her back curved, her shape taut.
He blinked away the memory and focussed on the screen again. ‘I was planting blue irises in my garden this morning.’
It was not her, of course it was not. It was her daughter’s daughter in her red sweatshirt. It was the past now again in his present. As she had always been. And now, now, she was planting the bulbs for the future, the future he had hoped they would see.
Anna and Barry were arguing
The castle outlined itself against a cloudless sky. The vapour trails of planes passing over the city formed an awkward diagonal cross.
Anna and Barry were arguing. He should not look at other women like that, never mind if they were tourists or not. And she did not care that she had thought Nelson Mandela was a fictional character. Fictional, dead, what did it matter?
Once again he turned and went into the gallery to calm down. She watched him go, shook her head and went to wait for him in the café. She ordered him a scone.
Times change
The closest I get to saving your love letters in a perfumed box is favouriting your tweets and believing you see me when you write them.
The butterfly flew in
Hina had been in the city for a while now but still felt conspicuous and out of place. Then one morning the butterfly flew in and settled on the ceiling. It slowly opened its wings. Only a few of the women in the carriage were looking up and noticed. They stood still, heads tilted back, smiling. The butterfly closed its wings again and the silence in their minds was broken. But with Hina the silence stayed all day, and in the weeks to come the thought of the butterfly straightened her shoulders and cleared her eyes of doubt.
simonsalento 