Poetry

Tonight on Merchant Street

Winter envelopes the East-End wayside,

Where halogen lights torture

The remaining Georgian dwellings,

Illuminating chronicles of what went before.

In a bar in Bow,

Irresolute words are swallowed neat.

Burning heat caught my breath

And melodiously lit

Muted skin.

Flanked by incongruous surroundings,

We are still not touching.

A symposium of sirens           

Is the only language spoken

Tonight on Merchant Street.

A warm, thick quiet trickled

From our mouths

As we returned to the second-storey room

Where I ached

To melt beneath your tongue

On the three-seater sofa,

Watching blue snow

Thaw into lavender sky.

Sarah Tapscott