Fiona Owen
Red-Cloud-Day
for Miss A
What a punch-drunk sky,
bruised like a boxer’s face.
But it fits my now –
I have an ache that can’t be run from.
Streaming sky, streaming time. You were visible
once you were solid I could hug you.
But you were swept
by such a current
I couldn’t keep you.
I whispered all the time whispered
so you’d hear my voice it would be
the last memory, the wet words on top
of all the other times I’d said the same three things.
I notice you no longer answer my questions
preferring instead the gesture
of orange rose
petals of perfection
which flare then fade
fall for the wind to take
Page(s) 19
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- Shearsman
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