Asylum
All nutshells are justifiable and arrive in batches
depending on the shifting colours of leaves.
Or shades of cloud cover.
Almond shells are difficult -
always attempting
to prove their worth, with pale enigma
they enter quietly,
beige and non-committal in their pastel garb.
Tomorrow’s batches move against the window -
pistachio white and chestnut brown.
Daylight, in fits and starts,
renders them dappled and tantalising.
Ashamed in my rapture, I close the blinds
and turn away.
Andrea Bowd
If you have any thoughts
about this poem, Andrea Bowd
would like to hear them
