Mother
once spoke of springdrops -
tingling, brimming, bursting,
a speckled diamond explosion
awash on her tongue
with bright
flavours.

Father
once told me of cocoa -
wooden, stolid, solid,
a mute inexplicable aftertaste
dribbling sweet whispers
in silent
streams.

I
recount to the cold night air -
regretful, yearning, unrepentant,
a ghostly contradictory smile
throwing wondrous shades
on cracked
teeth.