Lime leaves, lemon wedges, sour.
Shredded beef, sliced chillies, spice.
Sparkling tonic on iced roses, fresh.
She’s here, in the fabric of my skin.
Woven through eternity,
The only calm in my furious din.
Chocolate block by the hour, smooth.
London Dairy swirls in scoops, rich.
Red raspberries with little furs peek, red.
My little writer conjures the scene.
She says, have another,
Her voice lingers, distant, serene.
Gordons hits the bottom of the glass, splash.
The 10-pounder browns at 375• C, crisp.
Fruits soak in poisonous delight, Christmas.
It’s her birthday. The day of grace.
Red is her, she shines and taps my seat.
Her table is set and I take my place.
Brandy butter flecked with rind, tart.
Flaming pudding from Harrods, divine.
Baileys rivals a comfort so Southern, cream.
She fusses over the holly on the Yule log.
The mise en scene is her compulsion.
Her style opaque still, in the fog.
We don’t stop to smell the putrid air.
Take it in and dream of her still here.
Fragrant as the Chanel she left behind
As she strode in her hasty gait.
Time never stood still for her,
Today was always lush, tomorrow can wait.
She pours another and says, “Cheers.”
Sure, here now, dust soon.
Do we know it’s the last moment ever?
When our beloved is ready for the next trip?
Farewells are best left unfinished, hopeful.
Till the next time together, to the next sip.