Despite the hosing,
stems still cling to their cobwebs.
Strands draped between limbs,
threads quivering in a threat to untangle.
Roses grow thirsty again in a moment,
stripped out of their petals
heat caught up on their thorns.
A lessening, in want of more.
The Rosebush outside my kitchen window.
Tescos ran out of loo rolls and soapboxes.
Stay-at-home politicians with keyboards and opinions
screeching their how-to, quick-fix slogans.
Have you not been told?
Fake it till you make it means everyone’s an expert.
No one wants to say,
we’re all just fucking lost.
I’ll just slink back off to my grump little hobbit hole. Rant over in just forty-four words.
The fridge stinks again,
the thing lolling at the back,
sweating, sickly sweet,
cling film wrapped and taunting
as if to say ‘this is just your desert
for peeling me down
till we both cried shameless,
and you held a knife like a question.’
Tonight beasts broke loose
and rose up roaring,
their bright comet backs
bleeding light from spectating stars
trembling between each other,
thankful for the distance.
Close at hand we drew curtains,
played peekaboo
with things we’d thought buried.
Only real if we see them.
A moment stretched is still a moment.
Curled into the afterglow we looked relaxed,
yet I felt your hands clawed in the fabric,
prepared to tear the seconds from an hour,
as if they might be worth more alone
than part of a whole.
Carol J Forrester 
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