Her hand turned the bitter sun,
dimpling the rind between fingers and thumb.
From the pores a fine oil sprayed.

She discarded rinds like jellyfish,
dissolved sugar, added ice –
our first lemonade.

Our basement room, half underground,
mould on the wall behind the bed,
neighbours’ music – played out loud.

Larger windows now show the sky
as her hand turns the bitter sun,
dimpling the rind between fingers and thumb.

(written for share a poem in September 2021 where the theme was relationships using a line from a poem written circa 1985 ‘dimpling the rind between fingers and thumb’)