Love doesn’t need a smile by Annabel Howarth

On days when love seemed to have hidden,
Curled up under the covers in a darkened room,
It would peak out from the folds of fresh linen,
Run its fingers along dust free window sills,
Giggle from behind tins and jars in filled cupboards,
Skid across the spotlessly clean floor, and
Put on its shoes by the back door.

Love took us on a walk up the hill for fresh air,
Talked about how the houses we passed,
“Weren’t there, when I was a lad,”
Looked troubled, perhaps, as it
Ran through crunching leaves, and
Stopped at the shop for 10p mix bags,
And a can of pop.

Love held out a strong steady hand,
While we hopped across the stepping stones of a babbling brook,
It stood for a while, leaving us to refill our heads,
With the sounds of the gentle, bubbling water,
To push out the dread and the red.
It held up the barbed wire, so we could roll under,
Onto lush green grass, to tumble freely down the hill.

It guided us into bluebell woods and feigned surprise when
We came across a rope swing and a den,
It swung across the ravine to check it was safe,
To have its own moment of fun,
To also feel the rush of air fill its lungs with green and blue and let
Encased butterflies flutter free, their bright heady colours spinning,
Yellow and dark green, as the rope swing twisted to a stop.

It carried us on, sometimes all three,
One on its shoulders and one in each arm,
Unless we were all piled onto the old pram,
Before love used its wheels for the go-kart,
And when we stopped on the way, for more play,
It steadied us, as we walked repeatedly along a wall and
Jumped off the end. “Again, again, again!”

Then love invisibly greeted us at the gate,
We could hear it hiss and crackle, as we rounded the corner,
It said “Come in. Are you cold? You’re nesh you are,”
Ushered us to sit on low mismatched stools in front of the fire,
Lay newspaper across its opening, and we would watch the battle rage,
Until a golden mane began to curl around the edges
And love freed it to settle, gently purring, in the hearth.

When we tired of waiting for the chips to cook,
And rubbed the roofs of our mouths in anticipation,
Of the claggy feeling yet to come,
Calling out, “I’m hungry,” in our childish song,
Love brought out the laughter,
It set its false teeth tapping in time with its feet,
Clattering on the tiled floor.

And when love drove us silently home,
Tired and knotted in anticipation,
We looked at the windows for the signs,
that love had drawn back the curtains,
Inched open the back door for the dryer hose,
Rumbled and splashed, steaming into the bath,
And set free her song down the path.