Afterglow

Afterglow

We lay as leaves 

And sleeves 

Of mochi and swinging strawberry patches 

That are drowsy above us 

September seems to leave the sweetest ember 

Of baskets of blue monkey puzzle trees 

The ones we point out as we sleep in the land 

In those stripy bed sheets 

And cafe creme cigarettes.

With rose coloured hands we hold an earth 

Between our fingertips 

Whisper a nesting riddle 

It is not wise to pick sunflower seeds at golden hour 

By the train stations and the aquamarine swimming pools of fur 

That sit below my legs as I sail 

As a northern wild cat 

Back to Sundays of picnic blankets that flood 

Into them strawberry patches.

Garish gingham 

terracotta wet.

You’re soaking with dew

And turning green. 

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By Iona Mannion-Brown

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