It's Still Life

Poetic Bloomings: 17 July

“I know I am but Summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year” ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay

On the Hard Points of Pebbles

Feels almost prehistoric now,
it was that long ago. I was
paid a pittance for watering
the neighbour’s gardens.
Every evening I spilled the
coolness of water in gulps
on potted carnation blossoms.

The scent swept the air
with warm syllables of clove
and sticky honey. And I can
still feel my bare feet on
the hard points of pebbles.
Each step a chattering sound,
the disapproving tut of tongues

as I looked up at his window.
Curtains drawn. He was away
for the summer, and he took
all the magic with him.
I dreamt of his smile.
I dreamt of his words.
Even beggars dream.