Sunday, 11 September 2011


That day we had got up late,
Hazy with love, your skin
White, your body long and lean.
We were two deer in a clearing
Snatching mouthfuls of grass
Eyes glancing nervously
For the hunter, aware we could,
At any moment, get caught.
Contented, love like a small sun
In our stomachs, we glowed.
Happiness is a poppy, if picked
The petals turn from ethereal
Skin to bruised flesh so
We were slow, not eager
To face September
Daylight and realities.
We slumped on the sofa
Unable to stop the connection
Hand holding, skin stroking.
The TV bleated, you flicked
Over, were you in the kitchen
Making tea when I called you?
Is this real? It was like a movie
We hadn’t brought tickets for.
We sat in silence, watching the
Second plane fly towards the tower.
People fell like flakes of snow
Away from the choking death.
The smoke and dust settled,
What was left? We didn’t know.
Nothing could bloom
In that environment.

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