WHAT DO YOU DO WITH LEFTOVER LOVE?

I hadn’t meant to be a mother.

I lacked the proper instinct.

But then I fell in love

with a lizard growing in my womb.

We were one.

and then he was himself.

It surprised me

how he fit into my arms,

suckled at my breast.

I had no problems

loving him more than I thought possible.

His breath would change in the night

and I would be beside him,

before he had time to cry.

I understood his every word, even before they were words.

And when he was older,

I knew all the teachers were wrong.

He wasn’t lazy, just bored.

Bored of a world that just wasn’t as special as him.

And then he was bored of me,

walking away, dusting our history off his hands

     going down a road that I was not allowed to follow. 

What do I do now with this left over love?

I cannot stuff it in a suitcase in the attic,

or fold it away in a photo album.

It hangs around my neck, heavy, 

Threatening to drown me. 

I want to give it back to him

but he is so far in the distance

I will never see him again.

BAD WEATHER

It rained every day that summer.

They said it was summer, 

but it was not. 

At first things bent in the rain,

then colours began to melt;

even the sunflowers turned grey.

Ponds formed, then lakes,

ruining my shoes when I went out.

Rivulets carved paths through the house. 

Picking up our things,

Floating them by me: 

My books, a coat you’d bought me,

that carved camel from our trip to Morocco,

The photo albums. 

Memories settled in puddles,

 until the wind got up

and currents swept them away. 

One of the dogs got caught up in the torrent.

That hurt. 

I wasn’t surprised when my wedding ring

Swirled round a whirlpool in the garden.

Down the drain. 

You got in a boat, rowing away. 

Leaving me on the island that was left of our life. 

ON THE EDGE

You must creep to the edge,

watching the gulls careen.

A tilt of wing prevents their 

interception with solid rock,

boiling sea below.

You sit with your dog.

I dare not go so far. 

What draws you to the brink?

Leaning into the gusts, flying nearly,

with the frantic seabirds?

The grass is just as green by me,

The wind, less biting. 

I fear I am the fluttering sparrow,

clasped too hard in the hand,

heart beating, no room to breathe. 

To survive, 

I must sit this far from you. 

My love is no less with the distance.