Sarah Johnson

There are days that bulge from side to side
like grapefruit golden on a tree
crammed with pith and pip, interludes
of juice, both tart and sweet.

Days as thin as blades
that ease through doors, twisting on cold tips.
Days like drops of rain on city windscreens
spattered and then gone.

But in the days to savour
from sun’s brimming until the leaching brush of dusk
I am cupped, held within each step and thought and word
part of a larger breath.

Then one can truly say, that was a day,
that one I lived.


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Other work by Sarah Johnson - First home