The Summoner

by Anne Welsh

Given the acid from a single orange, I’ve seen you conjure
                                                                                      electricity,
biros fountaining across the nylon shirt work issued you,
the heat of your skin transfiguring them to cheap bic
                                                                               thermometers.
 
Given a lever, you could move the world, have literally
moved our garden shed from one end of the lawn to the other
on rollers, my new Christmas bicycle and all your tools
still locked inside.
                                              Even your hair never lies flat –
you are the static charge of a thunderstorm,
the bold of lightning tearing from cloud to cloud
over the Clyde Estuary, unearthed by shingle sand.
 
When you ask me who it is I’m seeing in London,
how can I tell you they’re nothing but iron filings to my magnet,
that you’re my lodestone still?