Jane Deverson
Window
She said and then he said,
but I am looking out at the fen,
how the polar light perturbs
the air waves between the window
and the voice; oyster pink
the wedding, she said, lovely hotel,
she never thought, would never.
Well, I suppose, and the way
the sunbeams glinted
on the runnels of wet sand.
A tiny beetle crawls over
a sycamore leaf on the sill,
shadow of the barista
on the wall. If only we hadn’t
gone to Tenerife, she said,
everything would have been,
could have. She can still see
her own reflection in the water
and the blue mosaic tiles
at the bottom of the pool,
the flown shape of a heron
or curlew across our field
of vision, a gentle breeze tips
the insect off the leaf
and the leaf off the sill.
Page(s) 47
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