Mary Golding 

 

Flux

Primeval
primordial
ordinal
prime
cardinal

Red on red
turning deeper red,
tinged with gold,
cells dividing
and dividing.

Wind rustles orchard,
the new green
of tender leaves
so soon turned traitor,
detachment in the air.

On the terrace,
in our garden,
blossoms tumble,
today trying to edge out
tomorrow.

All the plums
gone dusky,
grapes plumped up
in imminence,
bound for musk, the lees.

And yet to come,
the blush and burnish,
autumn's magic lanterns:
apple
persimmon
pomegranate


Daybook


Heating milk to froth
to plump my winter cocoa
or an evening's birchermuesli,
I nearly always boil it over
and the burnt tang slowly lifts,
a singe on warm and misted air
carrying past the precincts of the kitchen
all the way upstairs

where it lingers, tongue-deep as a kiss
among the books and tapers,
the hollowed, more than momentary knowing
of a life lived long in solitude,
the way I burrow in again
swallowing the solitary pleasures.