It's Still Life

The Look

          I remember
it was the season of acorns
and blow-sideways long-winded clouds
and tidal nights,
and the weather was a serpent
that God had created
for poets to muse over,

like they do about a proper English  summer, or a cast iron cooking pot preferred by cannibals in New Guinea,

          and I remember
it was that sort of day when Mum died,
and now when the wind howls
and the moon toys with the tide,
I think of her, threatening
to knock me into last year if I didn’t
remove that look from my face.

inspired by Poets United, Writers’ Pantry 50 “A feeling down in your bones”   © Misky 2020. Image from unSplash cc:00