by Frances Wilde

She breathes in tentatively

as if to savour each scent

and closes her eyes; to

squeeze out the lemon drops

which fall and swirl.

Wind-dancing impatiens and clematis

negate the inner bitterness…

the acrimonious stings, once

ineluctable. But- this moment-

Happiness cannot be morphed

by the retention of Lights, Motors,

Laughter, Screeching, Footsteps.

She lifts her hand and turns away,

a gentle neigh beneath defying Demand.

One comment

  1. joanmelia1 · February 6, 2015

    It’s a stunning evocation of a very precise moment

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