A glass of mediocre Bordeaux, not really suited to the sun,

It lies in a melamine glass, too warm now, it burns her throat.

The grass is green, yet to meet summers burnt rays,

They trimmed and strimmed and mowed in stripes,

The garden table wiped, she picks stray weeds and

Lays them in piles that soon will wilt and wither away.

The declaration, stares for all to see, she checks the tear

In jeans, beloved now sadly relegated to those

Mean and menial jobs, that takes her mind away.

Tonight she’ll stand and watch the flesh that slowly tans

Leaving marks from lines she wished they hadn’t crossed.

The shower was hot, the suds were astringent

She brushes water from her lashes and blinks

While applying the soothing balms that promise youth

And all that there is besides, she knows it lies.

Sheets are cool, she has turned them down

Egyptian cotton, clean and crisply laundered,

She sits on the upholstered ottoman, she covered

In flowers and thinks of hours just spent

Where choice was in the filtered light, that if she chose

Would hide behind the heat chipped shutters.

Tomorrow, she’ll walk the terrace, a cup of boiling brew,

Watch June, sparkle on the garden grass, beyond the hedge

Where bees will hum and settle on the waiting fields.

She’ll take a pencil, softly draw the clouds upon the sky,

Thinking of the legends that line the walls below.

She dreamt the nightmares and the dreams, her screaming,

Shrieking in the light and fighting in the crumpled sheets,

Will wake with bated breath, hearing echoes of her breath.

Morning is the stillness; she’s awake before the breeze,

The hustle and the bustle, even birdsong is slightly muted,

Just the lonely flute, she played while sitting with the roses,

Each note a thrilling overture to thoughts and adventures.

Her feet are cold as she pulls the drawstring that lifts the moat,

Music has drowned by now; she watched it float away.