Think how beautiful we were to start with,
clear as glass. How impossible to part with,
stillness was a rope we tangled round
our mothers’ hearts. In sleep we made no sound.
Come close the flower says and we come close,
close enough to lift, cup and smell the rose,
breathe in a perfume deep enough to find
language for it, and finding none, unwind
the rope back to a time before we knew
what we know now. When every word was true
and roses smelt divine. What went wrong?
Long before the breath of a cradle song.
Like a rose we slept in the morning sun.
Each vein a small blue river, each eyelash shone.