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Helen lives in north Cornwall where she leads the Indian King Poets and the Camelford Poetry Stanza. She is working on her first collection.
I can’t do the list thing, work my way through
your parts as if you were a jointed model, a corpse
on the dissecting table. You’re too alive, too whole, too known.
I can’t relish you by touch and taste and sight and smell
in the silent ways we once devoted nights and days to,
lying in grass or sand or sheets. Those were days and ways
of exploration, of obsession, of spying in unfamiliar places.
Now we’re in possession such intimacy is odd,
although that dip sliding from waist to hip still mesmerises,
your breath on the nape of my neck still opens
the evening to fields of whispering nerve ends, cocked
as taut as the ears of foxes on our first night walk.
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