Forty-five Minutes

Forty-five minutes til September

I’ve spent the last three hours

treading circles around my pen,

a dog who worries the changing wind.

My chest a caving misadventure,

stunned by the weight of falling rocks,

debris. My Grandad’s 30,000 unread words

in my inbox. Writer’s block, he says.

Every morning, a fresh new

height to fall from.

It’s a dull thud, except for when it cuts,

half an hour til September.

How the gales feel to cycle into.

A kilo of honey. A woolly jumper.

A gentler battle than summer’s bloodied knuckles,

I pray. Bruised hand holding pen

aftershock still felt;

waitress, writer, wager of wars.

Our text messages betray us,

words’ well-thumbed pages worn

like each other’s clothes. We wear ‘love’

‘Goodnight’ wrapped warmly,

Thumbs have not unlearnt our words.

Muscles ache: this is bodily.

Twenty minutes til September

I’m at the heart of it at last

Pen on pad.

Grief a spoon which hollows me.