September
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