Wednesday 20 October 2021



Beautiful shadows

fall at angles

that remind me

of you, leaning in close

under a pale, orange moon-cast glow,

on the boughs of the trees,

your whispers

were not so different

to the sound of their

leaves, growing spartan,

in the warm Autumn breeze,

fluttering like kisses

and enchanting heartbeats, against


seeming broken,

as twigs, underfoot,

snapping, with pressure, and

weight; the same way something shattered

across your face

every time I called 


grace and prayed your name in

the still

of night;

filled your senses: your scent

and sight, enraptured,

until your iris

turned black,

deeper and softer

than the velvet back of a


moth to a flame's leaping light,

burning with a gentle crackle, bright, in


and empty air;

late - a bonfire, a wood burner,

a taxi queue...

the hot smoke of your breath

in my hair. 


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