Freeze Frames by Michelle Brenton

It is a gloriously sunny day, the air hangs lightly with a hint of freshness, still, warm, enfolding but not enclosing. I gaze out over the hillside to watch the goats pick their way up the shrubby, rocky surface towards the feeding troughs at the top edge that the shepherd has filled with water from the tap I know is there.

I remember the day we first walked up there and found in the middle of an otherwise wild landscape, a pipe with a tap which on turning gushed clear cool water in abundance. It was as incongruous as the lamp-post in the Lantern Wastes of Narnia and typified the fantasy atmosphere of living on a small Greek island.

Here the colours are so clear and the air so clean we can stand at the top of a mountain further in height from the coastal edge and the sea than the top of the Grand Canyon is from its lowest point, and see every detail like a tiny architect’s model.

And the sunny days stretch ahead of us like a never-ending string of translucent pearls on a golden chain.

I hold your hand tightly and you squeeze back. We are together, here and now in this wonderful place, we are happy, contented and safe. I can feel your skin against mine; hear your steady breathing, slow and certain. I know if I rest my head against your chest I will feel that familiar warmth, smell the scent of you and hear your heart again as always. We don’t need to speak; I know your voice so well as I know all of you as well as I know myself.

Better probably, because I have gazed on you so many times, touched you and shared your space – I am inside myself and outside of you, learning your every atom, recording it and keeping it. Do you do the same for me? Even if you do, I know I will be forgotten. It doesn’t bother me.

You have a terrible memory, it is one of the things I learned about you and because it is who you are, I love, accept and remember it.

It is a gloriously sunny day, the air hangs lightly with a hint of freshness, still, warm, enfolding but not enclosing. I gaze out over the hillside to watch the goats pick their way up the shrubby, rocky surface towards the feeding troughs at the top edge that the shepherd has filled with water from the tap I know is there.

Your dark hair has started turning orange in places because of the strength of the sun. I used to have a brown cat and the same thing happened to him.

It is a spring morning. I am sitting in the garden in South Wales. You are curled up on the flagstones at my feet. I am wearing sandals and I can just feel your fur against my bare skin, soft and tickly. You are purring; you are radiating warmth. If I hold you against me the vibration will transfer into me, I know your smell, your frequency.

It is a gloriously sunny day, the air hangs lightly with a hint of freshness, still, warm, enfolding but not enclosing. I gaze out over the hillside to watch the goats pick their way up the shrubby, rocky surface towards the feeding troughs at the top edge that the shepherd has filled with water from the tap I know is there.

I hold your hand tightly and you squeeze back. We are together, here and now in this wonderful place, we are happy, contented and safe. I can feel your skin against mine; hear your steady breathing, slow and certain. I know if I rest my head against your chest I will feel that familiar warmth, smell the scent of you and hear your heart again as always. We don’t need to speak; I know your voice so well as I know all of you as well as I know myself.

You have a terrible memory. We are together, here and now in this wonderful place, we are happy, contented and safe. I know if I rest my head against your chest I will feel that familiar warmth, smell the scent of you and hear your heart again as always.

It is a gloriously sunny day. It is a gloriously sunny day. It is a gloriously sunny day.

I know I will be forgotten. It doesn’t bother me.

 

Michele Brenton @banana_the_poet‘s most interesting literary achievements so far:
twinterviewing Iain M. Banks through the medium of poetry and having two poems broadcast by BBC Radio Four’s Saturday Live program just after Neil Gaiman’s interview. She’s hoping things stay interesting.

Freeze Frames appears on the Poets United: I Wish I’d Written This section and on her poetry blog.

Photograph courtesy of StockFreeImages.com

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