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Peter Burrows Poem
I haven’t sat here for quite some time.
Our back patio, beneath the brown umbrella, in a chair that glides.
Someone else is with her now,
So I am here.
In this special space.
Remembering times together and with friends.
Loud laughter broken with many careless words.
Bravado to spare.
Burgers on the barbeque,
Some slow sipping wine, others chugging hard lemonade.
Too many ‘if it should ever happen to me.’
All healthy then, so such words were cheap.
But now
Green-leafed vines grow through and around
Our barbeque - not used in a year, or perhaps it’s two.
When I decide to take it back
Those damn vines won’t give up easy.
Oh, I could do it if I wanted.
But won’t.
Least not today or tomorrow.
Now black-leafed vines have taken hold,
Wrapping tight within our lives.
Oh, they’ll never let us go.
I know that now.
But still, I hold on,
Trying to kiss all better.
While black-leafed vines grow
Deep inside her
And shred my soul.
Copyright © Peter Burrows | Year Posted 2021
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Details |
Peter Burrows Poem
To be honest, I’m not a natural wine drinker.
But for the past while, I’ve been sipping some of hers.
To make her laugh.
I noisily slurp, smacking my lips just for the sheer theatre of it.
She likes a dram of red wine with her evening meal.
A meal that seems to be getting smaller each passing week.
Twenty Bees – that’s her choice of wine.
Red. Never white.
Canadian, I’m pretty sure.
Only twenty bees were harmed in the making of this wine.
That’s not on the label.
I pour from the large bottle into a small crystal tumbler.
Two inches in the bottom - for her.
Another inch on top - for me.
I swirl it around, giving it air.
I think air adds flavor.
But, I don’t know for sure.
I bring it to the dinner table.
Hunched over, she peeks from under a fuzzy fringe of white-gray hair.
‘Your wine,’ I say, holding the tumbler in my hand. ‘Twenty Bees. Your favourite.’
She smiles.
Then, I slurp it. Loudly. Pretending to like it.
Sometimes I get carried away with the slurping. My shirt front blossoms red.
She laughs.
I remember that special laugh, but now a soft giggle’s thrown in.
‘Oh. My. God,’ she says.
It’s her favourite saying these days.
Except for ‘You’re weird,’ which she says quite often.
At least to me.
‘Not too much,’ she says.
‘No worries,’ I say.
I set the tumbler down.
Another smile.
A hand, brown freckles in abundance, eases out, slim fingers surround the glass.
‘Ah,’ she says. ‘You’re weird.’
She sips - like a tiny bird from raindrops puddled within a leaf.
‘Ah,’ she says again.
Thin, pale lips smacking, just like me.
There’s an after-taste that lingers long after dinner.
It isn’t the wine.
It’s the memories of what once was.
Forever lost.
‘You’re weird,’ she whispers.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I am.’
Copyright © Peter Burrows | Year Posted 2021
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Details |
Peter Burrows Poem
In the almost dark
I reach out.
Her hip.
My fingers trace gentle circles atop the crest
Before falling away
To fuzz and more.
I dare not go there.
Not yet.
Eager fingers slide slowly to her waist.
She shifts position but sleeps on.
I linger, back and forth
Hip to breast.
Dare I cup it?
Touch the nipple?
I do.
She stirs but sleeps on.
How is it she is here with me?
Her impatient, but grateful lover.
I do not know. I do not ask.
I lift my hand from beneath the breast.
Fingers butterfly touch the hip
Then slowly, ever so slowly
Slip down
Into fuzz
And beyond.
She awakens and turns to me.
In the almost dark,
A shy smile.
Sometimes
I dream
And hold her memory
Tightly hidden within my heart.
Copyright © Peter Burrows | Year Posted 2021
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