Under the pepperina tree
he reaches out with desperate
hands, brings me a fist
of leaves and whips my cheek
to make himself known. The wind
is harassing us: a fierce heat
in her heart. I lift my face to
the sting, to a sky bankrupt
of clouds. There is nothing
to prepare you for the weight
that settles in your chest
the savage promise of this embrace.
The First 30: a postscript
Filed under poetry
Perfect postscript! Nothing prepares you – yup
“a sky bankrupt of clouds…” just love this phrase…as I did the whole poem.
Much to look forward to, Graham
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