The Poetry Society

I look at you, our eyes connect,

unlidded, magnetised.

A smile licks your cheeks

like sun slipping over fields.

We watch each other, quietly;

my gaze sets into your eyes.

So much was said

in the passing of his arm

that no-one touched

the sweetmeats and

the wine was left

by everyone

except the vicar's

kids, who were

young enough for

that to bring a smile

to his face

You ask for a glass of water,

so I saunter down the stairs;

this banister is loose again,

the paintwork cracks in lines.

Behind the tap is our mug-tree

and on it, a yellow post-it.

I carry fresh smiles in my

arms up the stairs, almost

leaving your water behind.