M is for Moon, above the nectarine, blurred in February
warmth, alone except for us. Childhood word, a permanent object, friend for
life, unlike the long words experience expects: meteorology, maximisation,
managerialism. Here today, gone tomorrow, while moon whitens our tile roofs,
our tin gutters, our moody windows. Sitting in the garden round midnight, my
mind’s maddening google day calms like a cooling breeze. N is for Nectarine,
nonchalant where summer’s concerned. I really wondered would it ever do
anything, watching it suffer in bygone heat. Now its leaves make peaceful tidal
shapes and its well-watered branches rest all night.
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