crackedmirrors and angelpie

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…