by Sharon Ashton

If you’re going to Rome
there’s a glove shop there,
not far from the Spanish Steps
not far from the room where Keats died,
not far from that narrow room.
I can give you directions.

I bought my mother the softest pair there,
colour of sunshine through red wine—
so lovely.
She’s never worn them.
They’re still in tissue.

I bought myself an un-lined pair there,
second skins of periwinkle blue—
so fine.
A perfect match for the scarf I have
from Ravello.

This pair?
Silk-lined strawberry sorbet.
Don’t you just want to lick them?