No woman is an island
It is the dying of the day
A ferment of tenses
Leads me up cul de sacs.
Where my vision lingers
On a shimmerin
My mood mirrors
The sparkling frost,
Loss upon loss.
I've gone now
Suspicious of the silence within,
Outside all is wild,
Clouds scud the colour of blood.
Sunshine soaks the sky
It is flaming June
I'm on a barge
Singing a summer song
On a bright mid-summer morn
I hear peals of girlish laughter
Echoing from the banks
Passing under metal bridges ladies
Quiver their parasols, men in top hats,
Like well-paid actors in a film about rivers,
Are over balancing and falling into the river.
One after another as if this was a deliberate
Act of mass suicide. Which it is.
Bodies splash into the sweet scent
Of grass newly cut and just
Forty-two years old and gloriously confused
She removes her shoes and happily remembers
That wildfires can’t be bought or sold
And so, her yearning, and my love,