String theory

All I remember of her

is a sound of peeing

from the next door room,

an urgent stream followed by a grunt,

and a mysterious glimpse of white string

between her legs;

and afternoon tea at The George

during term; and her tears

as I sang in chapel. Welsh lamb

served in leopard print.

Panic at the smallest event

when driving; a joke about a duck;

and my baby nose immersed

in her warm, wet mouth.

But that's all.

John H Davies

25th IV 2010

Butterfly

Tiny specs of yellow

against the blue and disappointing sea.

A grey sky and a calm day;

almost millpond.

We hadn't worried about our cargo

as we returned on the falling tide.

And half way home,

a mile from shore,

a long way;

the butterfly crossed our bow,

skimming the homely miles;

rebuffing our last port of call.

Lapping and disappearing

into the reef.

No perch.

Yet what vigour;

what heart

pumps this dainty thing?

Wings of lace

to some purpose.

Radar and spark,

on a futile wind.

John H Davies

1^st X 2013