Scorn

   The daisies and daffodils sighing and rotting

on my doorstep were once as lovely as kisses;

lovely as you, generous you.

But this swelling, bleeding secret of ours has

torn its way up my throat to my fidgeting tongue.

Now the telephone is mute and untrembling

with your silence and yet I wait,

my hand pressed against its plastic shell.

As the clock-hands spin I close my eyes

and I am on a beach, a sweet, toasted slab of earth,

waiting for the tide to wash ashore

what's left of this love.