Buds Blooming Not Yet Flowers Poem by Andy Brookes

Saturday night smelled of chimney smoke
and around the orange glow of streetlights
charcoal ghosts wavered in soft striations,
downdrafts wrapping lower layers in gauze shrouds

body heat erupted in speech bubbles
and from the smouldering red tip of scissor fingers
slim ribbons curled like rhythmic gymnasts,
intangible clouds and teenage laughter
waiting for the village bus to depart,
fog horns calling blindly from the river

we didn't go up town to dance in the discos,
we went to find love and have it fall at our feet,
swollen breast buds and newly curved hips,
but we were as blind as the fog,
waiting for hearts to collide in the dark