The morning after and washing-up
in a trance, half awake, fondling
wine glasses, their perfect curves almost erotic
in the warmth of the water and soap.
Recalling how you had talked openly last night
of how your life has changed,
of how those things you’d longed-for
waited for, will now no longer happen,
your sadness, salved by my red wine.
Then I remember you as that young girl, 18,
who still hides behind those burning green eyes,
that flash at the cruel irony of it all,
how you’ve discovered fate has broader hands
than you realised, shaping you, moulding
the path you’ve walked.
As I hold up the clear, brilliant glass
cleansed and polished like a life,
caressed with a soft white cloth
to make its skin shine,
I think more clearly now
of how I could have protected you.
*
© Graham Sherwood 09/2019
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 