Eight things that will end

(based on suggestions from @_boobook_ @skippy_2 @spikelynch @ernmalleyscat @snazzydee @mlledelicieuse @TheEndeavour)

Winter whispers in sharp blades of grass.

Leaves threaten the ground: cool days press harder.

Favourite biro is no heirloom fountain pen

Refill-resistant, found under a chair. Limited ink.

Almost grown past the under-18 solo section

Fills her lungs with music like it’s her last breath.

Morning gold enlightens a ruffled brown river

Nirvana in brief seconds: the sun climbs higher.

Air slips through swimming butterfly fingers

Hovering five inches from waking grounded.

Young hands touch her too anxious and often

She has had many men; he knows he is not the last.

Metal spinning top corkscrews slower

Falls still and sideways in childhood outgrown.

Filled with baby, tight and shiny as eggplant

Soon they will be as far apart as they’ve ever been.

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Today's poem (the second-last!) is based on suggestions from seven peeps:

• @_boobook_: “Spinning”
• @skippy_2: “Nirvana. The state of being, not the band.”
• @spikelynch: “Song contests? If that hasn’t been done. Or eggplants”
• @snazzydee: “Have you covered swimming through the air in dreams yet?”
• @ernmalleyscat: “The ultimate pen”
• @mlledelicieuse: “The penultimate of anything. The bittersweet feeling of knowing something will soon come to an end.”
• @TheEndeavour: “autumn leaves”

I've always liked writing poems that are lots of different things gathered up under a common theme (I have poems in a similar vein called 'Ten Best Caresses' and 'Five Pieces of Summer'). It's a bit of a pillow-book urge, I think. I like making lists.

One poem to go...