FebulousFebruary 2025: Lost and Found

One year, we went to theatre. 

Another, a Gin Palace in soho. 

This year for our anniversary we put out the bins. 

It’s one of the few trips you can still take, since they took away shopping together in Sainsburys. 

The bins. 

They might not seem like the best allegory for a relationship. 

Leftovers. 

Unwanted remnants. 

Actually, it wasn’t that at all. 

The bins contained the reminders and the remains of last night – a leftover crust of Beef Wellington, a wine stained cork (or three), the rind of the lime from the cocktails, an empty envelope from a card expressing affection and dedication, and the crinkly cellophane from the roses. 

And crammed at the bottom of the bag – 

the receipt. 

You don’t need a receipt if don’t plan on giving back what you’d purchased. 

If you plan to keep it for ever. 

For longer than lockdown. 

And as we clasped hands walking back from the bins, the sun caught a glimpse of the diamond on her third finger of her left hand. 

Locked down for life. 

The best kind of lock down.

Serena Roxy Gilbert (age 43 ) Kent 

The Limitations of Zoom

We are not bone.  We are not flesh. 

We show an unembodied face, 

display a dislocated base;

minds tangle as we breach the miles,

the shy rapport of distant smiles,

to guess what more-than words express

across the bridge of consciousness, 

and try to read the signs.

Yes I am here, yet I exist

alone within my separate frame:

 and you apart in yours.

Can tendrils reach across this space,

transmit the warmth of fond embrace, 

the subtle brush of gentle lips, 

linguistic play of fingertips 

as your hand touches mine?

Based on only what is seen,

can eyes still speak between the screens? 

Can we still reach the tender place 

that lies beneath the carapace?

How can we connect without

collisions of the tangible,

 the sweet kiss of the visceral,

without corpor-reality?

Those who crave the mortal spark,

who hunger for the human balm,

the comfort of the calming arm, 

stare out with famished hearts.

How can we replace the grace

that feeds between the lines?

Find ways to share our sympathies

in these unfeeling times?  

Georgina Koubel (age 68) Walmer, near Deal