Sundown
She pats tight curlsand sweeps a hand
to smooth away
the crease.
A slash of red
and gargoyle looks
become transformed
in colour.
Her feet will overspill
in shoes she wore
when dancing
was the rage.
Sweet biscuits
pur buerre
a tiny drop
the once forgotten
smell of
peonies in the air.
She pats her curls
as silk swirls
unsteady on her feet
to fall upon the
cushions of a
threadbare rattan chair.
She'll snore, her
mouth ajar
the slash of red
a smudge
and a hand
that smooths
the tortoiseshell
of a purring
whiskered cat.
Poetry by Elle
Read 593 times
Written on 2008-03-26 at 10:12
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Rob Graber |
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