Love poem

 

 

 

You are the light that strikes horizontally in the final

hour before sunset, the sun which paints gold

everything it touches.

 

You are a struck match, welcome light in an emergency which

gutters out in a nightwind or burns my fingers. You are the

odour of autumn apples in cartons in the laundry.

 

You are my rudder except when you are my anchor. You are my

milestone and my millstone. You are both the pop and

sigh of a champagne cork.

 

You are not the after-party empty beer bottles. You are certainly

the twittering of blue wrens at a frequency I may not

hear if I don’t wear earplugs to band rehearsals.

 

You are definitely not the mournful cry of that damn mopoke on

a summer’s night or the blood-curdling shriek of a

curlew like the wandering lost souls of the dead.

 

You are decidedly the tartness of that cherry pulp they put in the

buns from the South Plympton Bakery. You are

assuredly not the smell of dog turd in the tread of my

sneaker.

 

You are probably the feel of a baby’s breath on my cheek. You

are arguably not the thin slice of a new moon discarded

like a chewed finger nail.

 

You are everything in my universe. I hope I didn’t go too far

earlier with the millstone comment.