Wednesday, 12 May 2010
If was the promise
She waited as her table is swaddled in linen
a rough white smoothed by china cups
filled with tea of misty hills,
the angel cake cut into slices for
rouge lips that smother reputations,
gently with only a hint of malice.
Once, in secret she had waited beneath a clock
cold and wet for his eyes of water,
a coat held tight over a silk stocking promise.
He had made her warm with a touch that woke
the splash of a green-blue sea under a white sun.
He wears now the mask of the smiling god.
wooing the lost, the silent, and the tearful
who want a scrape goat to take on sins.
She is a swept floor, a neat bed,
a closing door with polite pecks
who watches a flickered screen for love
knowing the white lies and black promises.
The whisper of the room filling
snuffs out her thoughts and she turns
eyes blind to show others the light.
Random Word: If