Saturday Matinee


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.



Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s