it’s the softening of time around us
that takes a minute and makes it an hour
the clock ticks slower
as though the hands are coated
in sticky honey
it filters each moment
with a golden haze
crops it too abstractly to fit
on a screen
we can’t record, rewind, and pause
upload, download, and repeat
we can only touch the moment with our hands
hold it, while it’s here
and when it goes
we can feel it
with the aches in our cheeks
the nip of cold wind on our nose
the echoing harmony of our laughter
and when it’s gone
we can watch it back
as s t u t t e r e d images
in our mind
fading into grey with time.
This poem was written in a room, as the fire roared, with six other ladies. One sister, one mum, two friends, and their two mothers. My sister arranged a weekend away with our friends and their mums, who are also friends.
We joked that we would write poetry this weekend, but the idea became reality. In fact, most ideas became a reality this weekend. There’s something so pure about being surrounded by people who, when you toss an idea into the void, somebody picks it up.
So poetry became reality, as well as playing Cards Against Humanity with our mums, doing terrifying sheet masks together, recreating Taylor Swift’s album cover lifting one of our mums up for a photograph, cooking together, making Tik Toks, singing songs around the piano, and much more.
This is a weekend I won’t forget, nor will anyone else. We all found this weekend special, and that made it even more special. I can’t put my finger on it, but I tried to with this poem.