By Mark Fiddes

One bell  

tempered in new sun, quenched with wet leaves 

will be enough to wake to. 

It will toll a different hour  

to the opening stock market and rolling news. 

The skin of the air will shine. 

A green world will remember it has work to do 

as we remember we don’t.  

This may be the day we live decades 

as if everything we loved was  

for the first time. 

One pepper 

between flesh and tender deliquescence 

will be enough to feast upon.  

It will seed our tongues 

with the supple Earth, olives and woodsmoke. 

Our plates will be haloes. 

The terrace will knot with fruiting vines 

to hold us captive. 

This may be the hour we live most of all 

As if everything we loved was 

for only a moment 

One storm  

ripping pages from distant mountain ranges 

will be enough to sleep through. 

It will start a forest fire 

when lightning guillotines through the valley. 

Our blinds will rattle like dice. 

The room will sigh for breath  

before rain falls as hot and soft as late figs. 

This may be the night we live forever 

as if everything we loved was  

for the last time.