The Kindling

 

Evening

The day casts its half-eaten fruit
against the deepening sky.
There you are –
moon-pale, cold and waning.
The way you moved and spoke
hangs still, somewhere in the
fine arborisation of my mind –
its delimited space,
where every growth comes with
a shedding. Death now merely
extends equilibrium past the body –
leaves steeped in water,
the diffusion of colour into
receding warmth.
Loss. Its quiet distance
simple as stars.

 

Nol is a medical student at the University of Cambridge. He enjoys writing in his free time.