Summer’s Embers

by Emma Lee

The driver in front did definitely not
want to be startled back into this world
of morning commutes and timetables
as he dawdles and drifts, unsure of junctions.

I don’t want to give way. Still unsure
still wanting someone like you but not you.
You’re not coming back.
But time moves only forwards.

I can’t stick with our routines forever:
they yield the same results, each day
following the pattern of the previous.
Weeks slip into months, into years.

A rare evening out and I barely catch
a whispered wolf-whistle for my ears only.
He doesn’t invade my space, lets his eyes talk.
He’s younger. Someone I’d normally just walk past.

I wish him a good evening and walk on by.
I silently thank him for wakening something,
not quite desire, more a wishful could-be.
Until, Hold your head up, you’ve got a pretty face,

from a beer-bellied smoker. I’m reminded
of the ratio of thorns to roses on a briar.