Never was a soul more welcome into mine.
Never was a mind so loved,
so curled with the curl of mine.
Never were the burning branches of Autumn as hot
as the ice white, fire beyond fire,
that sprang from you to me.
Never were the membranes and veins of the ants virgin wing
as intricate and new
as your eyelashes.
Never did a hand feel so healed in mine.
Never did a heart roar, as yours did,
with the roar of the thunder in mine.
And never was there a more desolate,
more deserted place,
than the emptied room that we left.
feel the chill
of the draught
from the swing
of the door.
Renée McAlister, Brighton