End of love
Where is that beauty that is now just
Morning sloth, mere grumbling companionship left?
Now woken from that drugged reverie of admiration,
The guidance counsellors negotiating a love contract,
Our sex and finances fixed with beauty confined
To those glossy magazines and Saturday night painted for
Dinner again with our sometimes friends,
The clever conversation as trivial as an advertising campaign
And back home, the remote switches on our sag and routine
Feeling trapped not well found.
Then after, the graceless slapping in bed by great limbs
And sleepless in the grey night with that ever-tightening, wedding ring.
Today I felt the warmth of summer’s heat,
It scented itself over swaying hill grass.
I’d taken a walk along a casual bridleway,
Which had a certain destination, I guess,
But for me meandered into discovery
As climbing higher, I smelt the dryness of purple heather
Tempered by the brittle crackle of moorland bracken
And side to side, the horizon was shocked, by curlew shouts
As the odd frantic hare bounced, in and out, of view.
I’d gone to the countryside to find solitude,
But everywhere nature insisted my attention
And I left having been part of the drama,
As every movement I made, was echoed by the landscape.
Roger Ettenfield © 2020