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.
