Wild flowers grow along the road, they fill the air with pollen, a spray so thick they change the colour of the morning, make the words go blur, a curve disappear, a line smudge.
Leaves burn under the bridge where water should flow. The wood smoke, wisp of blur chokes the sky. Words are stranded in the hazy column so that I speak with a voice I do not recognise.
Every word I lay as offering burns into ash that blows away and settles on the brown grass. My mouth is caked in silence; the script forming in my head is a squiggle of rumours.
Who would want a poem that burns away words, leaves message truncated – a poem that would negate the moon nights we were together? I hold his gaze, reach for his hand and apologise, ‘This is not what I meant to say.’
Poem A Day: Prompt from Molly Fisk ‘This is not what I meant to say’