Wind

Today my husband is studying swords

And rediscovering a joy in kennings

As his eye that has no sight

Has finally stopped hurting 

So the other eye can now return

To read, and record, and recognise my face

That I was scared would be forgotten.

As he quotes to me,

‘Incitement of the sorrow of the fence of battle’

I think of the shield ulcer that

Cloaked and covered his eye

His sorrow becoming the repetition

Of eye drops and eye creams

That ensuingly and eventually eroded.

The energy of unseen motion, 

Particles changed by his serpent of wound

Resulting in two pages of beloved

Literature, formal and academic

Emerging rousing and romantic

As I see eyes negotiating the leafs

Unknowingly unforgetting my face.

Dishwashing

Dishwashing

I am washing my dishes considering if the cat I can see

out of my kitchen window is the usual cat or 

if it’s a new cat.

I am considering the enormity of the death of the usual cat

and feel sad for the man who lives alone

apart from his cat.

I am smelling the apple green liquid it’s thick texture and 

comforting smell remind me of a time

when washing dishes 

Was a fight between me and my parents and accusations

and slamming doors were something to

be sulked behind.

I am remembering the tired sighs and kitchen smells of my mother 

as she negotiated life 

and balanced tempers.

I am running the tap hot and challenge myself to bear the heat

before succumbing to cooling water, the plates are

drying on the rack.

I am wondering why these platters belong to me,

all of them odd, some patterned, some plain,

steam rising from them.

Was I so scared of conformity that my utensils show

my mismatched life? Life that I consider once again as 

I wash my dishes.

Storm Chaser

My husband is supine on our bed.

Head pillowed. Body taut

With legs slightly apart.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask him.

I think he may have hurt his back.

Or have sore feet.

Or have something on his mind that

Requires a hard mattress, and soft pillow

To give space for contemplation or remorse.

He looks at me surprised, turns 

And states, to the ceiling,

‘I am storm chasing.’

‘I am waiting for the storm.’

Yet again Alexa has deluded him

As she has been doing all week.

And with a younger mind than

His weather-beaten years, he lays expectant. 

Trusting in technology to free his dreams.