Flint

When the duckweed scums
The edge of the battered pond
He sees eyes that flint, her
Hands peeling two ripe plums,
All traces of holding back gone.

Brush snow from the garden thyme,
See how green it loiters there,
Life caught in a green splinter,
Waiting for the sun to climb
And warm the frozen air.

The green leaves make him sigh.
Is the fire of his love gone,
Crushed in the grip of winter?
Or can he make the sparks fly?
Flint holds fire. Winter holds the sun.

For Jilly, who has cast a brick to catch jade. I have completed her half poem – her words are in italics.