Tired of chalk faces & clay women who disowned self
decades ago, I grasp time as you tease
dormant geraniums back to life.
Each year your garden takes on more colour—mostly reds
while you grow more silver than woodland mist.
So often I see the girl melted into glass.
She’s there when she flamencos in her tulip skirt, slim calves
synchronised to earth rhythms.
I saw her the day she stepped out on rhinestone heels
to collect her degree. Strange flower
forgive the habitual hellos & goodbyes.
I’m a simple man made mutant.
Landslip & drugs have that effect— and we,
we often hang ourselves over brooks, rebirth
from misshapen clouds. Strange flower
if your belly sags you are not a balloon
drifted along my skyline to be popped
in preference for longer legs.
You are helium, my Dead Sea parted
a Sitar I’ll never pluck again.
©Natalia Spencer 2016