How do you measure, measure a year? – Rent
In April, I will remove the stopper
from the clear glass bottle on your bookshelf,
and fill it to the brim with the watery sunlight
you’ve come to love. Cork it,
and watch with you, as it becomes darker
and honey-sticky at sunset.
With needle and long thread I’ll loop together
the quacking strings of June-time ducks
and their yellow children. We can carry them
on our backs, proud and cacophonous,
and let their glassy rivers stream out behind us
in wide, bright ribbons.
When autumn comes I will give you
a swollen October blackberry, bulbous with juice.
Slot it into that secret place, that tiny, dark cellar
under your tongue, and keep it safe.
If it should burst, it will stain your ripe mouth
the colour of a final kiss.
And let us bathe together in the glow
from the church on Christmas Eve.
While it tries to snow outside, let us
soak ourselves in candles, and the colours of its windows.
I’ll watch them drip and pool, down your arms,
the back of your neck, the knobs of your spine.