is a more widely read
essay, passed from hand
to hand as we sat in traffic,
until travelling through hills,
looking out over Wales,
there is something faint,
a flickering, newly lit beacon.
The vast promise of evening, ignited.
Ideas are closely read, examined.
some appear in newspaper articles,
lifted from denser magazines.
The crossword we both attempted
is half done, most letters lead to nothing.
Maybe it will be completed later,
but for now we drive home
and it remains a frustrating maze.
I only read the essay briefly,
was distracted by it, my pen ran dry.
Skimming less worrying words
I pictured puppets pulling at strings,
not for release but for the feel
of the strings, their resistance.
And then you made a point
to mention the flowers
we never put in a vase,
as we crossed into England they wilted.
Parched petals remembered to be
once full for our celebration. Briefly,
they had a purpose when I gave them,
a sign of love, neglected
in their pint glass desert, the bled water
of their brightness now murky
and stagnant, they wait for our return.
I looked out to the lights of a power station
intruding on the night's youthful darkness.