Afternoon

That afternoon, after you’d brought me eggs
yellow as a symbol, sun spooned on the side
of the plate, we played at words, our own
collective nouns. A shame of dirty plates.
A joy of uncorked bottles. A dusk of shades.
An urge of strokes. A heat of sheets.
An excuse of looks. A quartet of foots.
A yolk of embraces. A smudge of kisses.
Days like those – we call them a bliss.

- Clare Foges

Highly Commended in the Lupus UK International Poetry Competition 2011