The leaves kept insisting on separate beds
separate atonements -
a glass-yellow morning
filled with medieval buttercups
etched in gold-leaf
waiting for the next Greyhound
a titmouse announcing the beginning
of yet another rich green garden.
She tweaked the mist
until it matched the stars
gave a narrow berth to mopeds
and to those hand-wringers
blue-veined and bespectacled
that we all know only too well.
She engaged others
despite their protestations
their ejaculations
got them to exchange costumes
share birthrights.
There wasn't a dry eye on the pampas
or in the coliseum
or along the Rue de la Fontaine
for that matter
on the day of her departure.
Tax collectors stood stunned.
She of course shunned the usual
with its attendant confusion and hoopla
instead boarding a hydroplane surreptitiously
to arrive well before the first pinecone fell
bearing her image.
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| Stella Tennant |