he was stood at the brink of evening,
honesty eyes open wide,
each their own little lunaria full moon.
it would be sundown soon, he knew,
and so silently he watched, as the afternoon sky,
which had been streptocarpus bethan blue
began to sink into a darkness that would be lit only, that night,
by stippled specks of starlight,
silver ink and indigo.
where i was,
there was ivy hanging from the ceiling
and i was thinking about iseult’s grief,
and love everlasting,
and how tendrils and vines will tie themselves in knots.
in two terracotta pots, forget me nots.