09 November 2020, Category: poetry
this winter will be a distant memory but the cold
will have set into our bones, the marrow deep in our
femurs will have wires of frost running through it.
We will lie on beaches, feeling each individual grain
of broken rock and crushed shells below our bodies,
feel the breeze rattle through our pores and sinews,
as we bask and attempt to inject starlight into our veins.
We will have started the process of relearning to speak.
The alphabet will not come naturally, we will start over
with simple sounds and build up to more complex phrases
but the meaning behind our grunts and incoherent noises
will always be clear: ‘I can’t believe we made it.
How lucky we are. I love you.’ On the shore, the waves
will crash and fall and in the gaps we will hear ice cracking.
Written in the half-time break of Bristol Tonic.