Poem: Potions Number Seven

Clearing out the onion bag to score

net gain of rustled

skin. Valentine nails of fresh life found

round crumpled blue, the drafted

last in foolscap folds, shed

layer on hold.

A tiny flat

with scabbed surrounds

of gigs and bus booth shotted.


Obsession on a skating date,

exotic scent from monied

gentle hills, a pool

to throw a stone to deep, how well it breaks

up all the form.


Time to slice, with no more spare, what white flesh hangs

and leaves up left,

what tang for life,

when all will come

are tears on tears?


(Apologies to Carol Ann Duffy).

PatMellow 2020

3 thoughts on “Poem: Potions Number Seven

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