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.