Welcome to Post-weekend Poetry and the one hundred and thirtieth poem in this series. This week’s piece is by Samantha Connolly.
Where they met.
Should be a reason not to choose the place –
The same dark stained wood and mosaic tile around the glass
‘Bela’, you used to say as you ran your finger along the grain.
The day outside is splashed with water,
crystal clear and cold and dripping.
Dew still on the grass and leaves
Bright, high sun.
It stirs something inside her.
A dull grey falls on the hush of the house.
She hears their laughter.
I asked Samantha what prompted this piece and she said…