This poem is quite sentimental to me. It’s about a time on holiday in 1994 with my boyfriend (now husband!) and two of my best friends when we were 16. I’m returning to the same campsite in Salisbury today, so I’ll have a look to see if there are as many shooting stars.
The last bird’s song
The stars danced for us
as we lay, holding hands
in the moonlit shadows of old Sarum.
Our backs soaked into the dew,
still sore, blood clotting
from the inked promise on our spines:
a small Celtic knot
binding us together, forever
for that holiday; that moment.
We could smell ripe corn
and summer soil
as we listened to the last bird’s song,
watching our wishes in the sky.
Tracing circles
in the goose-pimples on our arms
we talked about everything
and nothing much
while the stars danced for us.
