12 Degrees & Skiving

what began as year-long challenge has become perpetual until further notice

April 9

The Red Door

needing fire
she stepped through
the red door,
two last times
before she left him
left her cats, her roses
her bonsai ideas
she did so
raw and soulgladdened
though not because it was ever terrible
they never fought
or hated
for all of their years
it was comfortable
edged to neatness
mown every saturday after work
she menu-planned and he nodded
and squinted at the red door
as though he knew somewhere inside
that by letting her win the colour
he had allowed her aorta
to widen

she could have ticked along
happy with just a red door
but a year of poetry pummelled
the wood
wanted in

so she opened it
stepped through
amazed by the ease
shaken only
by the comprehension
that the value of someone teeters
when the end has come
and practicalities
push their way into the morning

perhaps she was too red
for him
against all that affirmative white
for him too much
for her too pink


he looks happy
he looks younger and thinner
than he has in some years

she imagines reproduction prints
quaint gallic cafes
groves of PVC olives
allowed to ramble
in a long ago kitchen
a planet away
his own little mediterranean

trimmed by language
in a culture older than ideas
she is growing well
this side of the red door
in time for the season of the poppy.


Tell me wotcha reckon

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