Absolutely stunning – I wish I’d written it!
No End of Blue Things
The bone china mug you drank from every morning
we’ve retired like a shirt;
an exhibition of blouses, perfume-faint,
hung behind a door I dare not open.
For coastal walks a darker coat,
the cursive waves, more grey than blue.
Allotment skies in April, May,
your riderless bike, desolate tools.
Archived to the loft, decorations nest in boxes:
each Christmas brought a new one for the girls.
By your bedside cabinet
a special collection of books; silver chain
meandering as a river from a plane,
icon of phone;
and a late portrait, a gift
from the gallery our lives curate:
last holiday, you’re toying
with an ice cream. Soon we’ll be listening
to world music, water songs of harp and kora,
the lit cathedral swimming.
Jeff Skinner’s poems have appeared in the Morning Star, the Stare’s Nest, Crowsfeet, Clear Poetry, Ground Poetry, The Open…
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