Island States

A small patch of rescued flowers,
a garden within a wilderness,
a little group of powdery bluebells,
one red and yellow, straight-up tulip,
a scattering of pale purple campions.
Remember lying with him – in that position they call spoons?
Complete.

It was only for that short fever time,
fooled, until life,
faded beyond their senses,
flooded back, loud and rude
as if coming round from a faint.

Maybe nothing has faded for him,
maybe rude, loud life is what he wants.
No, it’s like dieting with the occasional low-cal treat,
as if that fever time was some sort of delusion.
A great fat bee sips at the campions.
She sits high above it looking down,

remembers their island states,
travelling back and forth
on ghostly bridges and ferries
between personal worlds
to find each other, to stay separate.

There are glimpses now, glances off each other
hundreds of times in the course of one day.
Perhaps, then, they should -
should go and ‘talk to someone’,
pay to turn spoons into words,
get it back and ‘move on’.

be rescued like the small patch of flowers
waiting for years in dark earth, living
on scraps of light with the occasional
visit from one odd, persistent bee
waiting, waiting to shine again.

Above the flowers she sees that
sun has turned the wilderness into
a wild rocking glossy-green world,
breezes stir the ash tree all laden with leaves,
the sound too beautiful for words,
words too hard, too slippery to use.

There are no bridges or ferries
she must row from her island
arm over aching arm
just to see him wave from his.
Just to see
how the distance stretches as she rows and rows