A debutante among the pots,
the season’s last rose nods
a coiffured head and waits
like a lost romantic lead
for a doomed rendezvous,
to the lull of daytime television
muffled with nostalgia and
Co codamol by the one bar fire.
There are still anniversaries,
obsolete memories embalmed
in the amber of discontinued parfum
coalescing on her dusty dresser.
What was it called – walking back
from the dance, arms linked
with friends and the night rain –
Caron Narcisse Noir.
An earlier version of this poem first published in The Cannon’s Mouth, 2013
and also placed in the Highly Commended Cannon Sonnet Competition.