Frost Writes a Cloudless Sky
It’s a cloudless day. Frosted white.
The apple tree’s still threadbare.
As if I’ll remember that.
The plate slipped from my hand,
my eyes filled with time, as if
to stall, then fall, but I was too slow.
It hit the floor.
I wrapped the pieces in broadsheets,
Sunday Times, as if time mends
a break, or heals a broken heart.
My gran’s favourite serving plate,
as if love of that plate is what broke it,
but it’s probably today’s cloudless sky
and frosted white that I’ll remember.
Written for Twiglet #273 “Across the sky” ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter