Golden Hour
Last light on the railway bridge;
our shadows, tall across the planks.
You snap a photo of the hillside,
and I ask, what's the point of taking it?
You'd see the clouds, and the crows
over the cornfields nearby, scattered
like ash flakes over a fire ---
but they'd be frozen in place, stuck flies
in amber. Film it then, you say.
No good. The sun, burning my right cheek,
my left, cold in the shade. You could paint it
with a lemon glaze, blot the shadows in
with ultramarine, but you wouldn't feel it.
You wouldn't hear the way the wind
stumbles into the pink cavern of my ear,
like the sea does in your cupped hand
when you hold it there. The pulse
of a train approaching. Static in the air
above the rails. Your finger on my lips,
the way your hair smells,
the taste of almonds. That gold
in the hollow
just above your collarbone.
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/vze9z8/stone_ocean/igbdjrm
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/vz3kz1/tomorrow_king/igbeuj1
Posted Jul 15, 2022, 9:34 PM UTC
lovely :) i love the way this poem flows so naturally and the beautiful visuals are so incredibly human. a memory is a memory and while a photograph lasts forever, a moment will only ever be exactly that—a moment.