Black Cherry Ice Cream

We ate it leaning against the rail
above the harbour –
black cherry,
melting down the cone
faster than we could catch it.

And you laughed,
mouth red,
sunlight flaring in your lashes.

I watched the boats move below us –
slow beasts with canvas wings –
and thought:
this is joy.

Not fireworks,
not promises,
not certainty.

Just you,
offering me a bite
from your side
of the cone.

And the sweetness –
sharp and floral,
ripe as August before it turns.

H.J. Thomas is a poet based in Durham, UK. His work explores grief, queerness, and hope. He is working on his first collection, still here, and a second, Songs of Vancouver Island. Previously unpublished.