Adrian’s poem

Orchard Cottage.


I didn’t know that you were,
solid green with shades of cowslip in between,
grey stones plied from river bed, three razors
immaculately left for bleeding, on a bleached basin.
Your garden’s styled on Hampton Court,
small pared trees and iris peeling back the glove
of winter soil. I’m stung by the eloquence of intimate
detail. I can hear the drips from open wounds and
stripped pine bares the scars of stolen lovers.



The morning walks softly around here,
creeping from the marsh to stroke
the yellow window panes. Your cottage nestles
like a warm thumb against its other digits, a calm row
of being, stacked up against the new road where
the traffic barges. I’ve only glimpsed bits of you
before, but now the puzzle forms a thin veneer
of totems to a past. Long lazy summers of freshly
courted lemonade, sticky to the tongue, with a tart
after taste: like love.


2 thoughts on “Adrian’s poem

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