Her faded perfume
in this urine-yellow chair.

She sat in her rocking chair for thirty years rocking
between memories’ polarities

and ribbons blow a breeze around her
as if she is a post marking the way.

Pronouncements in the rain.
Cool air on the camera.

We live in a bowl.
The cat licks the bowl of free to leave.

It’s nearly over now and the wood
shows through the varnish.

No tension.
Eye contact without smiling.

Cellophane remains,
the flowers long dead, tied to
a post with ribbon.

In this rocking chair
next to this fire, wondering
where contentment is.

From Claire Gaskin’s collection, a bud.

Her eyes are swing-into-the-river on a rope and let-go blue

The shawl falls around her like a river,
or hair or an arm
Something about history, comfort and flow

She stands still by the side of the road
a stop sign for a face

He watches
she is just a pencil line
The tea the ink of tea is spilt blame
He is water colour leaning his elbow on his knee

Holding hands across the blame

The idea I forgot was blue
as big as the sky blue
open bowl blue

From Claire Gaskin’s collection, a bud.