Lying on my bed,
my mother's disembodied voice
rising querulous
from mobile propped against my breast;
I'm not listening.
I picture clever hands, instead –
tender-touching chords
or finely chopping vegetables;
tethering long hair;
out-penning fall of rushing thoughts,
nib skipping sidewards,
describing impish memories –
starfished joie de vivre,
gesticulating as you read
your new poem to me.
How well, I recall
that first entangling of our hands,
gentle fingertips
embossing Trust upon my skin
and Love's fierce embrace
interlacing ardent limbs
and
sudden
unlocking.
YOU ARE READING
Borealis Love
PoetryLove - what does that word mean, what does it comprise? Do we always recognise it when faced with it? Do we value it when we ought to do so? Do we squander it when it is too easily given? Do we ever understand until it has left us and we are left to...
