LEAVES BLOWN ON THE FENCE
The sudden gust flipped and sprang the coloured leaves,
pinning them in rows onto the chain-linked fence,
like a display of doll's clothes or old-fashioned brooches.
They trembled there long after the storm had dropped,
tiny quivering faces reminiscent of icons in the twilight,
each carrying a twinkle of the slowly sinking red of sun.
My cheek carries the imprint of the kisses you blew me,
I stood back to catch them as you ran out onto the street,
and later they rested uncertain as prayers on my pillow.
Like leaves blown on the fence skin anchors to my bones,
and words blow onto the page like story-book letters,
spelling out the turning seasons of our blustery love.
This is a language I am getting accustomed to speaking,
an instrument that is tuning its strings ready to play,
undressing all that there is to be learnt in our parting,
clothing us like a mother in fabric sewn by the wind.
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