They never bought each other diamonds,
rubies, sapphires, pearls or gold.
The only precious things they keep
are memories of days they spent:
on golden coasts with turquoise seas;
or viewing snow- enamelled peaks;
tangled up in bed;
or simply playing with their children;
or dining out with friends.
Sep 5, 2011
Sep 5, 2011 at 3:15 AM UTC
I love the line that brushes down your neck,
then curves around your shoulder
and strays along your side.
I love the way it turns in at your waist;
not quite as much as it did once,
but still enough,
and how it glides round hip and thigh
and skirts your knee and skims on down,
then curls around your feet and toes
and wanders up, and round again.
This poem shows I love that line;
I'm getting dizzy trying to trace it...
Sep 2, 2011
Sep 2, 2011 at 2:34 AM UTC
Today was perfect blue on white
(clear sky against great snowy peaks).
There were paths we could have taken.
But we had some things to do
(gardening and repairs and paperwork)
and so we missed the loveliness
this cold, bright day had offered,
as if we'd won a kind of lottery
but thrown the ticket in a bin
or been too lazy to collect the prize.
It seems we still have much to learn
about enjoying life, and leaving work
in its rightful, humble place -
much lower down the order.
Sep 2, 2011
Sep 2, 2011 at 2:19 AM UTC
His partner isn't simply what she seems:
he sees her through a mesh of memories.
She isn't just the woman she is now,
but a compendium of all she's been.
She's still that girl in light-blue jeans
(stunning, with her tan and long, dark hair)
who made his life seem suddenly worthwhile,
when they were students, crammed with dreams.
She's the mother of their children, too,
and though they're starting to leave home,
he remembers all the care she gave:
help with homework, food and clothes.
Or she's a forty-something lady on a beach,
who seems untroubled by the sun's harsh rays -
soaking up its warmth for hours on end,
while he must leave, in search of shade.
She could be likened to a Russian doll
concealing all those other selves inside.
When one has known and loved someone so long,
there's much, much more to them
than meets the eye.
Sep 1, 2011
Sep 1, 2011 at 4:28 AM UTC
With past lovers, lost but not forgotten,
a figure, face or gesture
reminds us poignantly at times
of their missed beauty, warmth
or power to give us pleasure.
Now you, my only brother, may be seen,
in people who all seem to represent
a part of you - your soft grey hair,
loose-jointed walk or bright, sad stare.
But even if these different traits,
seen at different times, in different places,
could all be brought together,
they wouldn't bring you back again,
and when I see them, I miss you more than ever.
Aug 29, 2011
Aug 29, 2011 at 4:05 AM UTC