Cormac and I had a brief intense relationship that helped open my senses to the world around me, especially to what was immediately at hand. The area I lived in then was beautiful on the large scale; he helped me see its small-scale beauty.
We walk by the sea, hands shoved deep in our pockets
Safe from the bite of the wind and unplanned romance.
The sand is dusted with ragwort, studded with seablite.
We crouch near a patch of samphire snuggled into stone.
You reach past bundles of shy flowers, snap a fleshy blade
And push it between my lips with a tap of your fingertip.
Green heat and salt spray on my tongue make me shiver.
You laugh and lift me to my feet, hand in escapee hand.
We walk in the woodlot, fingers mingling and intertangling
As we draw each other off the path to see foxglove
Clinging to the patches of sunlight between the oaks.
Enchanter’s nightshade salts the forest floor, cloaked
In the security of a toxic pseudonym and furred leaves.
Stitchwort points five ways back to the clearing,
Where bramble blossoms make promises of sweetness
And the chickweed leaves you pinch sparkle on my tongue.
Flowers don’t bloom in your footsteps.
They were already open, waiting.