We are gone now. No second yesterday.
Spring sun runs, melting fast into summer.
Copper butterflies jig then lilt away,
leaving petals, frail blue wings, in tatters.
Breezes brush a sword lily’s unsheathed head;
through bows and shudders, shifting thoughts unread
when streams plaited woods splashed in rain.
Wrapped in holm oak’s dusty shade, here again:
We walk with bees on our toes, fear undone,
breathing together crushed pink silver thyme.
Across the meadow our paths, scented, climb
to overlook hills hung in stippled sun.
Clouds pass. No second yesterday will come,
for we were not there, dearest friend. Just one.
Jane Angué teaches English Language and Literature in France. Writing in French and English, work was longlisted for the Erbacce Prize 2018 and 2019 and has appeared most recently in Le Capital des Mots, Ink Sweat & Tears, Acumen and Poésie/première. Her pamphlet des fleurs pour Bach was published in August (Editions Encres Vives).