Golden

Golden

There is a giant bottle
of red wine uncorked on
my kitchen bench
a few glasses tossed
down friendly throats and
the north London sun
setting over the half
finished houses
out my streaky top floor
window,
and when I say giant
I mean giant,
so that every line
is struggling for clarity
(clarety, chuckling)
is there a better metaphor
for us
than a burning ball of
white hot fire
disappearing?
Bathing everything it touches
in the slightly drunk
golden
glow of burnt endings
missed meetings and
an inability to back down.
The weight of it all
sighing, knocking back
another glass
in an English summer sundown.
I could erupt in storms,
or break through to new dawns
wine stains on the
soiled china mug
cobwebs threatening
something delicious
about the shadows growing
longer
the approaching dark.
And my god,
maybe I’m drunk or
fiercely romantic
but isn’t this a beautiful way
to end the world
there are fingerprints
not mine
on the painting out my window
and this gold is dirty gold
smudged ink in my lovers eyes.