Refracted

 

A specific slant of sunlight, mangoes,

a vase of gerberas one afternoon,

a flute seller piping a marigold tune

above the traffic noise below these windows

 

all flash your smile back to me – this shade, this bloom

was a favourite, the slant reminiscent

of your knuckles, or the words you had sent

skimming across the oceans, or the room.

 

Is this how it’s going to be from now on? -

every trivial thing viewed against the light

of your refracted absence – dark to bright

fanned out in a spectrum, now that you’re gone.

 

How does this rainbow recombine and when

or won’t I see that white beam ever again?