Molten jasper; deep lustrous brown -
The colour of my darling's eyes, bottled.
A sip, and perhaps I shall feel less rundown,
This misery throttled,
Even just for the time being.
I miss her at sunrise, at sunset, beneath the midday sun;
By the fire in the evening, when we'd drink, freeing
Ourselves from the responsibility as the week was done.
Friday evenings, the hearth stoked,
We'd drink whisky, talking into the depths of the night;
Taking it in turns – whilst one drunk, the other smoked.
The weight of the world, she said we'd be alright,
But all that remains is her picture on the wall, on the mantlepiece;
The glimmer of her eyes within the whisky glass.
I'll love her always; she was my peace,
And now, each Friday until I, too, pass,
I have a drink for each of us; that deep brown,
Molten jasper – it reminds me of the beauty in life,
Of this infamous ride, how it takes you up and down.
Pungent malt, how it tastes the same as Friday-night kisses from my wife.
YOU ARE READING
Refraction.
PoetrySo many aspects, colours and themes make up our experiences. Truly, is anything entirely good or entirely bad? Upon weighing up the positives and negatives of the past, do we not admit that even tragedy is- in a twisted sort of way- advantageous? O...
