Perennial

the names and games
of bygone flames
sail back on cinnamon
ships.
dappled with lemon and
the sound of slight women
wriggling slowly out of
their slips.

cracks and jacks
on the sidewalk smack
of sun-soaked
afternoons,
but rivulets of colour
slither down to the gutter.
rain and dusty
cartoons.

we left sharp, metal things
in the field last spring,
when the rust began to
accrue.
now nestled in nettles
and wildflower petals,
our kettle joins
their crew.

the dim morning dark
and an old dog’s bark
and the coffee we
used to
brew,
toppled over your lips
as the night-curtain rips
promised us the
forthcoming
blue.