Their eyes I remember globes glass
in a camera, their past like an estuary light
in the dark. Sparks from the stars
are chiming here, chandeliers
from streetlamps in the park
mapping their own boulevard,
the night hours long and in love,
their life in their arms. Nightjars
on the lid of the pool, still bright:
the ghosts of a past
where there is always a light.
Away from then they are thirty years,
mother wit a candle in her eyes. Here
for the sleeper with his old wise light
the sun kicks spangles, coins bright
as the yesterday full in his smile.
The past, meanwhile,
a lukewarm light on their lips
at the edge of their sleep, something lit
by a childhood ballroom. I remember the moon,
a candles worth of film hung on its spool,
when we sat in that park, the garden asleep,
the stars that fizzed in the deep hot dark
still holding their breath for you.
Laura Potts, twice-recipient of the Foyle Young Poets Award, became one of the BBC’s New Voices last year. She was also listed in The Oxford Brookes Poetry Prize and nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Laura’s first BBC radio drama aired at Christmas and she received a commendation from The Poetry Society in 2018. You can follow her on Twitter @thelauratheory_.