Quinta Essentia


07.15. Though tensed to the routine
of tea and shower, breakfast in the car,
you stop to touch the velvet surface
of an alchemilla leaf and try to name
its shade. Malachite, perhaps;

you remember itís called the stone of
transformation, as much a fifth element
as the beads silvering these leaves:
droplets that would turn base metal
into gold, if the alchemists had been right.

The tabby butts his head against your leg
and purrs, his eyes the same chartreuse
as alchemilla flowers. You stroke his back,
think about the funding cuts and wonder
what alchemy would make a difference

Sharon Phillips

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Sharon Phillips would be pleased to hear them.