Saturday 24 July 2021

Survivor

 

Survivor

 

 

She knows it’s like pancake flipping,

judging the moment, stick or twist,

if it buds or flowers it’s in her wrist.

Can’t place my fingers in or on it:

she could stick the landing, I’ll admit,

but what’s growing here is hard to say.

Months passed; my sent rose bouquet,

once red blooms strong; petals bold,

shed in decay because they grew old,

as feelings wither, grow slowly cold,

a solitaire hand you’ll have to fold.

So, my dark effervescent bubblewitch

prunes. She casts runes that stitch,

crops suckers off stems, buds weave,

strong magic she kept up her sleeve,

her rambler’s tamed, held in check,

in growths she knows I can’t forget,

names each stem. Like faith in love

or honesty, sincerity, hope and trust.

Loyalty blooms, each frond she tends,

whilst on my sincerity she depends,

knowing how hearts and pancakes flip,

she waters tenderly to tighten grip.




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