Ambling
She likes rivers and reeds and dandelion seeds,the smell of coffee mingling with the dew spun air.
Her bed, a tangle of cotton and dreams she only
vaguely will recall in snatches as the daylight calls.
The slip of silk as it falls like ice on night heated skin,
she walk, feet and floor, before the tread of day
she'll glide and slide her way to heat a pot and
measure out, beans that fall and bounce, a blend
that will reminisce of mountain air, even here
by sight and sigh and misty breath, she breathes
to take her brew and walk upon the bare wood
of a verandah that overlooks this tiny edge
of morning light, a call more primordial than all,
her time, this time, before the autumn fall of day
that so intrudes, excludes her from the solitariness
of life, loves lost, gained, forsaken and wished upon.
Here, where the canopy of leaves obscure
and where once the ducks had dabbled, then left,
the sound of water lapping and gulls slapping
as they raise their wail like call and all and all
will sure fall, she smells the air like fragranced light,
slight, her shoulders slope to balance hand on rail
while all and more her senses will assail.
Long past, that foetal grip of sleep and turmoil
of things that only she holds deep inside,
her smile a crease in the tissure of life,
she sees beyond the trees and seas and lazy leas,
before myopic lens will replace all that is sheer beauty
and mocking suns, seek their sons, all gilded youth,
she once was beguiled and indeed she loves the warmth,
the smell of sweet honey and meadow grass,
she accumulates thoughts then drifts them to cumulous clouds,
making shapes that shift; if she could dive, she surely would,
fall through their monsoon wetness and land in leaves,
like a bewildered world in pine bedded forest.
Laziness, wraps around her legs, a purring sychophant,
as stoop she must and feel the heartbeat that mirrors hers
yet, finger light and quicker, she wishes she were slicker,
as lady love laps up milk, in teased ambrosia bottles.
This some days and all days and even occasionally a sum day,
she knows the cartology of her lines and lineage,
they are grooved between the joists of a verandah
and the cacophany of leaves, she cocooned around herself.
Sun days are the nicest days, when she leaves the bells behind
and whistles in tune to a pot that steeps memories in hot cups,
reflecting the amber depths of long lost eyes in aquatic depths.
She remembers the unravelling, before the grips tied her hair,
stopping waterfalls, that now just fall, slowly in a direction,
and the kiss on her naked shoulders where the silk slipped
and the words became unuttered on her lips.
Perhaps heaven lies between egyptian cotton and lives,
the thousand ones, the ones she dreamt last night.
Poetry by Elle
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Written on 2012-06-30 at 18:51
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