Love’s phases in uneven metre

1.

He throws his hands

Up like as if

Painting a self portrait

For her to judge.

She blows him bubbles

From lips that have hugged

Many forks full of

Cheesy spaghetti

Flattered with pepper.

 

The talk is of

Chatter the chat

Is of less but

The eyes watch

It all wise in

Quiet waiting

For later to

Be laid bare.

 

The legs relax with

The wine the young knees

Find a nice place

To play while the feet

Discover the other

Side and pretend each

Touch is accidental.

 

Above the table

The first valve

Of chilli splits,

Veins feel heat

Burst bubbles

Paint curdled –

Two gives up and

Fizzes as one-

 

They leave,

She forgets

To pay the

Umbrella

But he pulls

Out his fingers

And they depart

Bound in hand.

 

 

2.

Apart, the light

Was glorious.

Beach-ball-bats glistened.

Together, it was

Different.

The bench was their

Stage and all the rest

Scenery.

 

3

 She was there in the night

She was with him in the day

Through thought’s dry vapour

She shone bright dew while

Wet in the rain she waited

At the traffic lights

Filling time with him.

 

4

He was the deep and

Gentle rise and fall,

What’s that he said? That

Thudding like the ebb in

 Warm deep water,

Refuge for the frenzied waves.

 

She was a tree-like place

Of rest and love, the

Deep shade to shelter in

 and heal  blisters with

 her leaf-balm touch.

But it twisted into something

Rough and cut in squares,

Something he had seen in

Other people’s wives and

She had felt as her roots rotted

In the dark, something neither he

Or she could see but both

Knew was there, the fruit had soured

In the heat .

 

 

Part 5

Later, recovering,

She thanked him for holding her and

Kissing her hair’s grease,

Finding the eyes she’d dropped ,

Washing them Clean

With Salt love,

The best kind:

Rock

  

 

Part 6

 She found herself

Asking him

How his day

Went.

 

He liked how she

Bathed his stories

 In warm water

Before bedtime.

 

She liked his way

Of being the

Full stop to end

A long day.

 

Together their

Effort made a kind

Of prose, as yet

Without a plot.

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