I lose myself in the story
   find myself there all along

you text me
Chet Baker
my phone alight

    the dark horse has cheeks
    of suede and a mischievous tongue

hammering in my head –
am I being rebuilt
or demolished?

    Lolo’s flamenco drum
    the sound of its vowels: cajon

all I can fit
in my mind
is the moon

    tawny owl you say
    nuthatch, blackbird, robin

I read her face
a long glass
of clear water

    from the train the sea
    is even more beautiful

cygnets as big
and hungry
as their mother

    left forefinger and thumb
    the letter ‘L’

I remember
to water the gardenia
forget my keys

    you juggle a spinning ball
    on a knife between your teeth

lightning flickers
off the corner
of my reading glasses

   Japanese anemones let loose
   their pale pink petals

your small noises
on the rug
the fire’s crackle

    Miss Dolan’s Delight
    on the lap of The Bishop

sky a book
of changes
open over water

    when he says Love your enemy
    it stops being theatre

the taste
of disappointment
four day old bread

    birdsong suggests an open throat
    at least the possibility of love

a cold sore
means no kissing
no being kissed

    illusion: sunlight, willow
    a river flowing upstream

the comfort
of blanket stitch
Pure New Wool

    your silence filled
    with what I can’t give

two people
with the same name
a different loss

    the poem you wrote me then
    a surprise in the dark auditorium

at the Cumberland Arms
her green scarf
her pint of gold

    the mushrooms grow taller
    their caps thin to cinders

I talk
to no-one
all day

    is what we are making
    a bowl of clay
    to pour ourselves in?

Extract from a 365 verse solo renga by Linda France

From: Book of Days, Smokestack Books, 2009.
Published 20.12.11

Posted: Tue 20 Dec, 2011