Three Mistakes

Late sunlight on the water with the smell
of new-mown grass and both the verges fair
and tall with flowers. In the slanting rays
the world was like an open door, a new

beginning: there were birds and I could hear
the sound of children talking. In the pub
the lights had been switched on but on the road
you still could see each detail, every tree

in its own colours: summer’s height. It would
be one more hour before the sky went pink
and yellow, and the skyline turned into
a chiselled silhouette. The soil felt warm

and on my mind there were a woman’s voice,
her laughter and her eyes, how we had smiled
upon the things to come and how we’d meet
again in some day’s time, and I sat down

and watched the day grow drowsy, unaware
that it was no beginning but an end –
A slight chill slowly crept across the ground
and night fell and there was no turning round.

*

At last, fortunately,
we would be dancing
and the dull morning,
the hours’ confinement,
come aglow, I thought.

But not so. The hour
grew even heavier,
and the bright morning
got clouded over.
Hopes come to naught.

*

Peeling the fruit in hesitant
anticipation: a big orange for
a sweet tooth, and the juice might be
like spring water on dry land. The white

inside of the finely pockmarked peel, soft
and velvety, would turn hard and
dry within hours but the memory’d be
still on my tongue. The parts, shiny and

tempting on a blue saucer, the dark
red cloth and sun through the windows
on a cold, bright morning – winter’s
epitome, wide and green and de-

populated but snug this side the glistening
glass. Warm and alone in the empty
light of January I’d almost think
the orange could really be good to eat.