Sundown

She pats tight curls
and 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 The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 611 times
Written on 2008-03-26 at 10:12

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Rob Graber
Wow, what an unflinching description! The second stanza's reference to "gargoyle looks...transformed" seems to offer hope; or does the red only make her more grotesque?
2008-03-27