I find myself in an unusual situation. After 12 years of writing poems about other people, somebody has come along and played me at my own game. What follows is a Chaucer inspired account of Francis and I stumbling across each other in Amman back in April.
Let me take a moment to survey all the Lemons from my Lemon Tree. There they hang — polished and gleaming As though the buds produced them new. The oldest is eighteen, that sunshiny globe hides a bitter tang of unwanted seduction and sits beside it the smaller lemon that was my broken engagement to a silly young boy. Another one inspired by ABL.
Not sure why he had such an impact on me but he certainly has given me lots to write about! I last saw him on Gili Air in and it was after this I finally decided enough was enough and walked away. Strange synchronicity; we holidayed on the very same isle I was there with friends, you were solo you said with a smile.
You found me too gentle when I patched up your finger And at the end of it all, when I hoped you would linger. One night, you went out, I wanted to feel you, to capture your scent So I found your soap in the bathroom, saw your fingerprints feint.
I wanted to use it, trace marks on myself with soap trails of you; I wanted to feel you, to smell you; pretend you wanted me too. Anticipating joy, I turned the soap over and found… Clumps of sodden black hair in that great soapy mound. December mists bring biting frosts — salvation for me is not coming. It lies, supine, still wound round the handle, slinky with the secret of your fingerprints like a record showing that you used to care. Sort of; in your own indecipherable way. The only thing left is a strand of lime green connecting the dots; a line from me to you.
