My husband offered me pomegranate seeds
from the supermarket shelf; I wonder
when Hades tempted you. Now four months of
each year you dwell in the depths with him
while I endure, this suffocating darkness,
exhaustion, craving carbs and sugared tea.
I ache for sunshine’s vitamin D –
and your return with flaming torch.
Demeter’s sorrow is shared, but I detest her
fruitless spread, so slump beneath my quilt
with no desire to surface and get dressed;
warmth coddles all my frigid bones.
I scrutinize the sky for scythe-like wings
returning from overheated realms,
yearn for apodidae, screaming parties
careening madly round rooftops.
As crocus’ wake beneath catkin arms,
you glimmer through the shadows, enfold
me in promises, scythes slash through cirrus
- and I spring into your radiance.
Eira Needham is a retired teacher, living in Birmingham UK. Her poetry is eclectic and has been published in print and online. Some of her publications are in The Linnet’s Wings, Black Poppy Review and Green Silk Journal. She has also been Featured Writer in WestWard Quarterly.