Merry Monarch’s mistress, pacing blue lit halls
Lamenting beauty drained to dropsy.
Bulking figure breaking night quiet,
lamenting her lustrous skin,
doll eyes snuggled in sourdough flesh
recalling face and hands
once gleamed softly as freshwater pearls,
crying her past, as Hawkers
cry wares. Now looks exist
only anecdotally.
She’s spectre,
to amuse, or drag in tourists,
dropsied shadow, sobbing yesterday,
presence catching the throat.
Drunk Back-packer startled by floured
features at a window, by cheeks pocked as gibbous moons.
She fades, hears her whisper …’Lord, save us’.
Ghost pacing, drained, breaking her flesh and softly crying,
now only spectre, or shadow presence,
startled by us.
From her most recent collection, Revudeville, (King's England Press, £7.95)
No comments:
Post a Comment