THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
You can tell the weather
by the feeling of tap water
running cold as the months draw on.
Seasons change s l o w l y, so
it must be something else when
about a dozen days into October
you stand in the autumn chill
and the wind has changed overnight,
smelling of wafting memories.
Autumn isn't lonely -
only liminal;
I told him once I loved him,
but loved him as a friend
and he took my bashfulness
as an erotic hint; but no,
we did not have words then
to express, "I am merely unused
to being frank thus. I do not
shy from desire but from this precipice
of confessing there are things
I care about."
November brings the frost again
but for some twenty odd days in October
the yellowed leaves, the croaking crow
entrance you in a vision;
The night breaks faster and the sun
is just a little late. The moon
is easier on the eyes. The moon
has borne witness to all your nights,
do you dare indeed
look her in the eye? I told her
I loved her - would she consider
holding my hand to her lips
and her heart to my hands?
My vices! I thought then of another
I would rather offer this love to,
and moonlight shone
upon my cowardice,
my hasty insincere heart.
For twenty day there are combinations
of light jackets and ceiling fans,
warm tea and a leg out of the quilt,
like moving homes between cities
of Summer and Winter, boxes of habits
packed, trinkets of routine s c attered.
I told them I'll love them
in time, in ways
unlike their own. Their kisses,
their gifts, their words I'll return
as the cooling water douses out
my bashfulness again. I know now
love is patient, love is kind,
love hangs back and waits for you
while you tie up your shoelaces;
love waits twenty odd days
while you bring out your coat;
love meets your eye and forgives you
for fixing yourself so slow.