When the last arrives
The last tattoo blooms across the skin,
not a dare, not a defiance,
but a quiet seal of completion
A story inked to rest.
One day will be consigned to flames,
as the body slides into the furnace
The last conversation drifts like a river.
That knows where it must end.
No unfinished business,
no grasping for the right word
just voices meeting,
fading into the distance
The last invite to a wedding
Arrives in its crisp envelope.
Once, it might have stirred excitement.
Now it rests gently on the table,
a reminder that celebrations
have long since ceased
The last dance finds its rhythm.
In a softened step.
No spotlight, no applause
just bodies swaying
To music it no longer chases,
Content in the sway of its own breath.
The last embrace does not cling.
It holds like a steady flame,
then loosens without loss,
Warmth carried forward
in the very air
between parting hands.
The last letter lies unwritten,
And that is its gift.
All that needed to be spoken
has already found its way
in gestures, in glances,
In the simple weight of presence.
The last cup of tea rises in steam,
Warmth settling in the palms.
No bitterness in the leaves,
no clinging to the ritual
just flavour savoured,
In every sip.
The last sunset does not bow dramatically.
It slips beneath the horizon.
As it always has,
leaving a brush of colour
That asks for nothing in return.
Gratitude fills every crevice.
And when the last poem comes,
It will not announce itself with trumpets.
It will slip onto the page.
like dusk across a quiet field,
complete in its own stillness,
Needing no validation.
The Blooming Bloomers
Long ago, in Victorian times,
When grandma stitched with clumsy hands
Girls wore bloomers, billowy, vast.
A parachute masquerading as class.
They puffed like sails on windy days,
Tripped young maidens in awkward ways.
A single sneeze, a gust, a leap
And whoops! They ballooned, laughed peeps
Laundry lines would sag and groan,
Each bloomer big enough for a throne.
Washing one took half a stream,
Drying it? A fortnight’s dream.
They hid the figure, knee to waist,
(Though mothers said that showed “good taste”).
But romance suffered. Lads complained
Till the panties came
Sleek, quick, and neat,
Liberating legs and seat
No more billows, no balloon,
No need to launder by the moon.
Yet somewhere in a dusty chest,
Bloomers lie, enjoying rest…
And giggling at their modern kin,
So tiny they could fit in a tin!
And now the world of lingerie
Displayed on billboards on every street
No more piques the imagination
Victoria’s Secret has taken a beating
