Twigs from aromatic shrubs still hang
inside her locked kitchen cupboard.
Smells curl in spirals, escape restraint
through narrow gaps by flared brass hinges.
Sometimes, I almost faint with longing.
I miss her. Her love and her perfume –
lavender she dabbed on cotton hankies.
It shocks to realise
I’m older now, than she was when she died.
Today, I reach out, touch Spring’s first furred catkin,
dusted yellow. My years fall away,
settle like discarded skirts fallen round my ankles.
She calls. I miss her. Her lavender uplifts me
and I leave my crumpled circle of fabric debris.
She calls and extends her hand, unveils her eyes
not dead but seeded in memory’s eternity.
Beneath an arc of cyan sky, I prepare
to shed my time-worn skin, fly to thinner air
and celebrate our shared, aromatic prayer.
Ceinwen lives in Newcastle upon Tyne, UK, and writes short stories and poetry. She has been widely published in web magazines and in print anthologies. She graduated with an MA in Creative Writing from Newcastle University in 2017. She believes everyone’s voice counts.