Mistletoe and Mothballs
Thu, 26 Dec 2013
Resurrected that old sweater
from the depths of your drawer...
the one with sprigs of mistletoe on...
the one the moths had a penchant for.
It reeked of you – of us; of when
I’d snuggle my head on your chest...
when I could no more have imagined
life without you, than cutting off
my right leg.
How nice, and not half so lonely
it would have been, to have somehow
‘bottled’ the person you were then...
before the world...fate if you like,
dictated who you ought to be.
And tonight, watching ripples
chasing errant slivers of the moon
on a pond of hammered silver,
and the whisper of a glint of starlit gilt
on the quivering birch trees
where, a zillion Christmases ago,
we saw the ruddy slosh of holly –
berries stencilled red on a blue-print
of the skies, as we wandered, side-by-side,
cocking a snoot at brown-frowning
furrowed hills, deep in conversation
with mounding clouds – plotting
the mother of all storms;
remembering, how windswept you were,
yet, how impeccable you looked
in your unkemptness...and thinking
how I miss you.