Sea Glass Sorrow
Age Rating: 16 +
Lifting the bowl from the fridge
I make hard-boiled eggs rub raising whispers.
When last their ilk I’d heard,
long before I met her,
fresh fragile snow in crisp cold
was uttering protests at bearing snowshoes and me
while wind, sun and cloud conspired to throttle them the morrow.
Dancing partnered with a stranger
I move to the Strathspey’s rhythm.
When last its ilk I’d felt,
she standing opposite in the set,
we were attending a hotel-held ball,
crowning climax of classes where we’d met,
while the violin-led band sent spells against gravity
to levitate listeners.
Passing its kitchen door
I catch a whiff of coffee, toast and kidneys,
this humble hostelry’s complex breakfast odours.
When last their ilk I’d smelt,
she standing at the stove, spatula in hand,
spring air was slipping in the window crack
while cats abjured gluttony on ledge
or confessed it shin-side, seeking shriving by morsel.
Sweeping the parking space
I find two small sand-blasted shards.
When last their ilk I’d seen,
she bending to see sea treasure,
I was plucking sea glass from shore sand
while the Atlantic, trapped in perfect addict’s cycle,
played craps, using smooth speckled stones
to toss ten thousand contemporaneous games,
and rolled again before pips could be counted.
Sitting at the table,
she in the next room talking with a friend,
I had heard her carefree laugh.
When last its ilk I’d heard,
years ago it seemed,
she was laughing with me.