Who Invented Lemons? by Brian Hutchinson

He loved a chase. Always hiding sticks
he could barely carry, or
burying bones. I ‘buried his.
Best mate.
Ashes to the flowers.

Life waited until I wasn’t looking.
Biding its time. Cramming tiny
little problems inside my head
then gate-crashed and ransacked.
Every emotion, purpose, feeling
emptied out. And left me.

‘He was only a dog…’
selfish people said.
The pain tore me apart.

Then vast empty plains
of nothingness.
Orchards paled with doubt.
Solace beneath cold-arm cliffs

bed-sheet havens.
Emotions surging like waves, crashing
over cold, grey beaches.
Raging tides that never turned.

Sweet placations: Hushed words, flowing
in peaks and troughs.
Noise. But a nice noise. Mellow.

Thoughts trapped. Or lost. Only here.
Now. No future or past.
I didn’t exist.

I once saw butterflies sipping dew
on the floor, of a moonlit room.
Spreading their wings in the twilight,
trying to get warm…?

Windows opened in white, blinding light.
I could never smell summer.

Crazy thoughts jumped out
of my face and stared right back
and I couldn’t look away.

Feeling nothing
feeling guilt.
Feeling lonely. Staring-out walls

or at steam wafting from
hot citrus drinks.
Lemons. So… Yellow?

Supple-pitted skin, shone of youth and femininity.
Soul bathing zest
fresh. Abundant. Wanting to play.

He came back to me once
perhaps in a dream. Maybe real?

Licking smiles all over my face.
Found and buried my panic.
Opened the windows of my mind
to where orchards blossom

sunshine, I now feel on my face.
Parks filled with children’s laughter.
White petals, falling as confetti.
Our love bonding in the breeze.

I now understand
he had to go to seed, to sow his meadows.

And each day I sit in mine,
watching the butterflies trying to get warm.
Spreading their wings to the sun.