Spheres of eau de nil slip through, careless.
The island glimmers like crushed glass.
She doesn’t look up when I speak
the sound of silence spiked with roses.
She is wearing a wolf jacket, face tilted
and edged with gold. A fandango is a gift
not for everywoman, she was someone
ten minutes before and her own name
centre stage. Now she prays as the invisible
life of the sea spills skywards. Pink naked
in newspapers, dislocation strikes a pose.
She turns. No place for strangers they say.
The first time is the hardest and she twists
for her dreams. I want to laugh until
I see rain pelting cheekbones and roll-ups.
Where was my power over water?
The Purple Hermit 
A great read, Nikita. It speaks to me of the inevitable passing of who we were, and how we handle that, gracefully or gracelessly, also the image. Glad to see The Haar is going well, congrats.
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Thank you Steve. So gratifying when someone really ‘gets’ my poem!
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My pleasure, Nikita. What resonates is hard to know. Everyone is different, sees different things. I think poetry is reader’s choice, but I agree, when someone reads it your way, that’s great.
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