Lovered 

I first dyed my hair red 

on leaving hospital 

as if to say: stop. 

I was enough of near-death 

and stats 

and letters before my name. 

I met you… 

mere weeks afterwards. 

Weeks that Lazarused, 

leavening like loaves. 

I was plenty to go around 

in my too new red boots. 

Then, on our second date 

(my nails scarlet, to the mast) 

you brought it. 

And red wine. 

It tasted less inky 

than I remembered. 

I’d had my fill  

of white love. 

More the colour of straw 

though pure in its vinegar. 

Pink love too, 

lukewarm flavour 

left-of-centre 

and other L words. 

Oh, and the tang  

of knock-off love 

from obscure European regions. 

Ours is red. 

Ever since. 

Not the trigger-red 

of a traffic light 

or semaphore red. 

Tulips. 

Full-bodied. 

Good with meat. 

Late, on our last week date, 

when I bled, 

again, 

we were grapeful;

standing here, 

tip from red to toe, 

I wish for more where 

it  

came from.