The Kiss

She clutches the beads,
amber in the evening light;
the sun’s slanting rays shine blue
against the bank of snow outside.
She waits, preparing the table with
small white cloth in the inferior room,
confessing to not cleaning well any more.
The moths gather under the lamp,
shadows lengthen, the shawl falls,
sound is muffled, only our heartbeats heard;
there is no knock at the door.

Next week the ice melts,
threadbare trees begin to shift-shape;
tiny buds appear whilst birds
dip and dive over branches.
I push Mom into the pick-up
and drive carefully, avoiding the rolling mist
off the mountain. At noon we see the spire;
at last I hear his voice, persuasive from the pulpit,
we leave with his promise to call.

Just today, walking through golden luminous fields,
I hear a throttle, an engine. It throbs like
life-blood. Blonde-green blades hurt my bare feet;
I run through grassland into a garden
noisy with the scent of summer.

They are both out here;
he gives her the ancient rites,
places the white wafer on her tongue,
lays his lips against my cheek.

Thelma Laycock

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