She asks which part of her body

I like the most and I say it’s

the softness, the smoothness of her

inner thigh, so as to remind her of

the start of it all, that time she wore

striped stockings that rose a mile high

in that direction. I think it was a fancy-dress,

she must have gone as a pair of legs.


I ask her which part of me, of my body,

she really likes, knowing the answer

will remain unsaid – the male physique having,

in her mind, a bleak future generally,

thirty-downhill. I do not fall outside this rule –

indeed, I probably form the foundation

of her quite compelling observation.

Would my mind fare any better?


I let a sigh begin and end any

exploration of that one. Think of the things

that can swing our heads around a room, like

the silver ball rolling on the roulette table; or the

addict’s wild eyes leaping from corner to corner of

the gaming hall, unaware of his absurdity,

the degree of his self-demeaning.

Has all dignity, all deportment, gone?


Those priceless things that form the first

attraction, which can’t be replaced in their

original roles, despite the accumulation of qualities,

widely acclaimed, some small-town fame.

She did not fall for those, nor the clothes

on my back. The love of another resides

in the other’s eyes, not the tying of a tie;

in the blossom of youth, not the length of a tooth.

◄ THOUGHTS OF AUTUMN (audio version)



Jemima Jones

Thu 18th Oct 2018 11:16

A shame Peter that I am not the one who decides as to which poem deserves to be POTW, but had I been, this beautifully crafted piece would have surely been at the top of my list. Thank you. Jemima.

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Taylor Crowshaw

Thu 18th Oct 2018 08:55

Lovely Peter and a little sad, the march of time....?

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Don Matthews

Thu 18th Oct 2018 08:19

Nice Peter ?

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