It’s been a slow news day here at the GFG luxury penthouse suite in Thanatology Towers. So here’s a very good poem by Owen Sheers. If you like it, buy the collection. It’s called Skirrid Hill and it’s published by seren.
i. m. Jean Sheers
There were instruments, as there always are,
To measure, record and monitor,
windows into the soul’s temperature.
But you were disconnected from these.
and lay instead an ancient child,
fragile on your side,
your breath working at the skin of your cheek
like a blustery wind at a blind.
There was only one measurement
I needed anyway, which you gave,
triggered by the connection of my kiss
against your paper temple
and registered in the flicker of your open eyes,
in their half-second of recorded understanding
before they disengaged and you slipped back
into the sleep of their slow-closing.