The summer is about
to end
Begging the lashings of
the orange luminosity
The stretching shadows
strewn across her path
Flickering offerings of
light between the trees
She contends and becomes
blinded from amber to black.
Seeing her shadow drawn
onto the glowing concrete
She adjusts her posture
before staring directly into the sun
Examining the blood
threads in her eye lids
She waits for the
floaters to pass, and as always, they do.
The
morning air greets you without commiseration
And
the sky, white like an untrustworthy eraser
The
tenderness is now lost between the air and her lips
High-pitched whistles
begin to circulate without regret.
The
leaves seduced on their backs are waiting for contact
She
presses against the wax that once protected them
You
would have to look close, but a carbon copy is there
Leaving
her mark she wonders who else’s will replace it?
Taking a deep breath the
landscape becomes still
How her fickle mind
jives through the summer memories
Elusive to all who have
touched them and intangible to her
Has she ever been more
whimsical? The shadows protract towards.
Striding
against the glow searching for the words
They
move against the rhythm, separately they chant
Disturbing
the slumber air she awakes in midstream
Troubled
by the authorship and ridiculed by it’s proclaim.
Today is a ceremony, of
what? is denied
She tries to stop
thinking about it however Prevaricate
Pleasuring the
affectations of the window lost
Solitarily she dampens
the cloth and cleanses the panes.
The
sky twirling elegantly like a blood drop in water
The sun melts into the bewilderedness without dismay
Escaped threads of hair
lash at her face, urging her to move
But
a familiar sense of homesick begins to crawl into her mind.
By Jodie Cresswell
September 2009
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