Sunsets feel – like skylarks –
as if they have always been there
draping around you, remaking the touch
of hand in hand, arm around shoulder.
The cold makes us talk in staccato,
short syllables we bite down on and share
drinking in that playground
in the still Scottish air
now, we watch hoverflies on the buddleia
tracing its purple into the coming dusk —
the last ray of light flecks
the gold of your cider onto skin.
In the dark, the clink of buckles
as Orion’s belt braids your hair in silver
braids your heart in stars.
Nick Newman grew up in China and Scotland, and studies English Lit at the Uni of Leeds. His work appears in Marías at Sampaguitas, Stone of Madness Press, and Riggwelter Press, and you can find him procrastinating on twitter @_NickNewman