Apricot Press

I did not write yesterday.
The page was blank and the ink dry. 
The pen shelved, left untouched
perched precariously in its haphazard abode
for fear of bursting into life at any moment
in a blaze of blue banalities and 
words that cannot do justice.
 
Justice to the metrics inside:
folded and foraged. Tucked beneath the topsoil, 
ravenously planted and unevenly spread. 
Protecting the seeds and bulbs beneath so
that they might blossom and bloom, 
grow to be mighty and pompous; but 
unassuming to the naked eye.

Framed by a meowing meadow: alive in its 
spurts of growth and languishing yellows; 
daises and daffodils that signify spring 
rushing and renewing. Gasps aplenty. 
Burrows emptying and excitedly drawing breath 

from the sharp morning air. The first breath 
catching amidst a temperate touch, caressing the 
inner workings: the network of winter’s 
scratchmarks etched beneath the surface,
excised by the new layer of topsoil. 

Today I write. 

Fusions

By Lee Eustace

Lively I woke. Full of song and 
intentions. Fuelled by fissions
and fusions of untouched barriers,
scorched by the hue of longing eyes. 

Orange was the colour. Not amber 
- meekly flashing by way of warning - 
but blood orange: rich and welcoming
with a raucously reddening warmth.

Vigorous were the words: softly
spoken in mellifluously, cascading tunes;
delivered in a dance of beaming eyes and 
a concerto of raw, malleable lips. 

Endless, are the minutes and whispers
between us and them. The coasts and 
coves: inlets and tombolos of all that 
is promised and hoped to be. 

Photo credit: Álvaro Serrano