There are days

There are days

When a tense wind blows

A static charge from one end

Of the garden to another

Alternating currents

Arguing with the beginnings

Of a tempest

Keeping it at bay

Until steamed heat cracks

Through the brittle

Stretched

Skin of summer

And a fat sun

Slips out of the sky

Like a soft yoke

When I can hear you

In the kitchen

The sound of ice tumbling

Into a punch bowl

The smell of citrus

Freshly squeezed

The clink of crystal

And cocktail spoons

Homemade Sangria

For a lazy afternoon

On our own

Out of earshot

Of the phone

In those days

When everybody

Had a landline

Which sometimes went

Unheard

Which was absolutely fine

When life was a party

Between the two of us

Unlike now

When the phone is at my side

As if I care

For it to ring

When I do not

The memory

Of our conversation

Over Sangria and fresh fruit

Is all the stimulant

I need

To help me talk

To old ghosts

Sitting in a row

Alongside black crows

As dead as gargoyles

Nailed to

Weather beaten

Fence posts

On days like these...