I can’t remember any words Sonia might’ve said
from old school dictionaries branded in my head,
but looked up all the times she entered, with eyes
scolding hot, sultry brown as her tongue chastised.
How those years did flow on by, in wind whipped
sycamores and oaks, dancing a breeze restless
samba, all spinning seeds, dropped hard acorn
bullets into musky autumn earth, one on one
until what remains in my dreams now belongs.
Hot summers long, learning lessons all wrong,
thirsty lip-licking of dry throats and wet moats,
all that back row fingering of unbuttoned coats.
Those soft currents spiral white butterfly specks
up, up and away, freckle blue skies with flecks,
mottle my memories, dappling white leaves beige,
binding up yesterday’s diaries, make sticky pages
drizzle inky prose of copybook blots that may,
or may not, its black and blue secrets betray:
watching, as you bend forwards across to scrub
hard, squeeze out gummy suds; polish and rub
as winters strip trees naked, each year passing
dims our eyes unclear, we see greens grassing,
hedges blooming with fresh clutches of nestlings
shredding bare our mind’s sharp seeds, wrestling
from us all bright memories of clammy gussets;
peeking out on purpose, revealing red lace buffet,
a good spread on a tray, honey, smiles and teeth,
pushing back against the door, holding my leash
between her snapping fingers. Time ploughs faces
into bent furrowed fallow fields, kicks over traces
of summer’s yield, leaves us out to pasture, slow
burning where new green buds are starting to show,
thrusting up and out of dank earth. She’s shrieking
spells, bending her back, works it, Greek in speaking
old curses of women need men to reach it, there,
oh, now that’s it, quenching floods, burning in bare
crimson flushed flesh to end where we both began
to plough fields then scatter. And, what of them?
New blooms fade in nature’s fields, withering slow
soured mildewed vines under brief waning rainbow.
Plant Sonia within my dreams, for there she grows.