Reading & Writing Poetry
what lies beneath lovea deep poola name written in inka feather caught in mid airan echo repeating itselfover and over againbreathlessnesstearsa drawerfull of keyssilenceand laughtera door that opensboth waysthe tick of a clockand not knowingnot ever really knowing
February 14. What lies beneath love.It’s buried far too deeplythan I have strength to dig.You’d find too many layers,loss teaches this.The word sums up one aspect,the first that comes to mind,the greatest of all.St. Valentine’s Dayexploits it to the full through card shops.Where would the saint bewithout their fervent commercialism?I walk among this plethorawith eyes averted now.Yet I need not dig deeplyto find love still in plenty,for my children, returnedI know in equal measure,grandchildren too.Friends share in this rich pattern, part of the purpose of living.While near the surface yet deep within mehis memory is ever green as the trees he planted,the home he helped to create.Love is a good word the language all the richer for itas we are when we receive or use it.
ValentinesIn return for the sickly teddy and card swarming with pink hearts, he presents anticipationit’s something special he says.She spends all day guessingdinner, flowers, sexa proposal?He stares at half-dead roses on the petrol station forecourtknowing she’ll never believe they’re something special.Eyeing up the lingerie in the shop window is uselesswhen he can’t remember her size.All his workmates offer upis beer and a curry, with candlelightplus jokes about castration when she guesses.A search on valentinehelp.comsends him scuttling to McDonaldssnapping with his phone.Twenty minutes later he emergesfrom Tesco’s, scribbles on the backof a photo and shoves it into an envelope labelled SWALK.When she sees the picture of yellow plastic chairs and readsthe first place we kissed, she knowshe’s the one.
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