Feathers float down my mind
white drifts in.
heat-hazed memories of unforgotten mornings
like lemon-cake drizzle drip through my thoughts.
a softness unequalled.
a joy, joys, remembered.
Fathomable, I find I can see those
as if written in the light they were filled with.
Now, as we turn into this well-trod street
long ago planted with strong trees to last
lives, we still know the step of four feet –
our strides inchiming entwining,
each enriching each.
your laugh plays in the echo of mine
our shadows mirror our sounds in mime.
the sun is low and weak,
but higher, warmer than the day we said goodbye.
here we are home,
(yours this time).
granite pavement promenade,
that rose that’s always budding,
slatted wooden blinds,
those bungalows opposite
will reveal the sunset later
in an orange blush.
You rustle in your cavernous bag.
marks the moment
one small step
This place still smells the same
of West London and blossom and roast chicken and wine. of light and toast and your brother’s gym clothes. of warmth and the view from your window. of nectarine tart and post. of your mother’s jokes and the books I’ve given you. of snickers bars and coffee.
Months have piled months on months
since the first time I was here –
that young summer’s day
before I knew that you were you.
You kiss me in the hall.
lips fit lips,
as they always did.
I suppose I knew that change comes slow
that climbing those stairs
there would be nothing new.
but it seemed so strange,
the world seemed not to notice
when we ended.
surely though your house, your high room,
(green and so full of air and memories that my lungs and heart compete to burst first),
the stones and mortar
might pay us the credit we deserve
but now I’m here again,
it gives no signs,
quiet, still, this space remains
however many times
A tingle tickles my core,
in me a numb fuzz blooms outwards
and I feel porous.
The present is rewritten.
then what now then for the past?
If we reclaim our future
this return won’t be my last.
a bright calm flushes over me,
more leaves are in the book.
another new morning’s existence
like lemon-cake drizzle drips through my thoughts.