Hot
Small suns, they bring the light
of Seville into my kitchen.
Cut and slice them into molten
pieces, douse the glow, infusion.
Stir them into mermelada
a pan of orange volcano
sweet and tart as a moorish kiss.
In the dark days of the year’s
turn, I cook the colour of hot.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Red
as her eyes in the mirror
as blood dark as the afghan carpet
opium poppies, sleep and forgetting
the scarlet soles of her sandals
the light that shows something isn’t working
the glass she lifts at the end of the day
the sky that says, it’s going to get better
* Bernardine Coverley lives in Suffolk, dances the tango, has had poems in Smiths Knoll and mslexia – and has new book out Garden of the Jaguar on the subject of travel with a plant theme. www.bernardinecoverley.co.uk
