Aged 67

it is easy to stay at home when most of my friends are dead
and all the women I have loved, in one way or another
are flashes of humming birds or peacock tails.
 
The last one to leave was hard to handle, but not
unpleasant to touch. Her hands were soft, trailed
cobweb light across my greedy body.
 
That mouth could orchestrate symphonies
liquefy stone, turn it into molten river
burst banks with volcanic ferocity
 
There is a saying that there is no fool like an old fool
and none more so than a blind one, who hooks
a sprat to catch mackerel.
 
The problem with this is you never feel
the line fall slack, a lead core’s weight
registering as a false positive.
 
Every now and then, I trawl through seven years
of photographs. And there she is, the bright red shark
hair like iridescent backed ravens
 
streaming down over her shoulders and breasts
and stopping just before the cleft
prominent under stretched denim.
 

© Talia Hardy 2015

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