These wet petals of cupped liquor
are kept for myself.
Cast in bright bullets of cerulean;
no more than twelve,
like bitter cellar wine.
Moved against peppery pane,
the vine-ripe rain cries a warm line
behind white curtain,
not unlike the cleanest of flames
drawn up in cuts of chlorine,
feverish,
washing and rushed of a lung.
Curiosity has killed my tongue
with lacy shadows and glassy eyes,
sharp like sea salt.
So, steal high noon into Sicilian quarters
And I am pouring into glass.
Fly-trapped in tea tree cotton candy, nothing
but a pressed daisy. A fractured frieze
Cramping.
A masterpiece.
Rinsing is the evening cool
cutting warm afternoon;
dried, preserved and left lace-curtained
for another month or two.
Maeve Moran is an Irish student currently studying English Literature and Education Studies at Durham University. Maeve is absolutely fascinated by language and words and voice and uses poetry to explain the things she simply cannot express properly any other way.