No woman is an island
I can hardly speak but I will try.
My brain falls silent, still;
It is the dying of the day
When a ferment of tenses
Lead me up many cul de sacs.
Lingering a moonlight-figure
Mirrors the sparkling frost,
He's gone but never lost.
Suspicious of the silence within,
Outside all is wild, the colour of blood
Soaks the sky.
On a barge meandering down the river
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
So, her yearning, is born again.