2005
Xanthia
You, to me, are in your early twenties, a sultry time for those
that know. A curl of pearls around your neck bow
to cheek bones, a slightly sun-love complexion, a country nose.
A gold brooch, with a ruby centre, hugs your brow.
You are about to make your social debut, maybe,
fashionable for the well-to-do in the Victorian crown
or to go on a European cultural holiday, to France and Italy.
Your hair, thick, curly, a rich brown.
I watch the look in your eye where I get
a young female, but not a woman yet.
Yinginea
You, to me, are a late teen, small, mouth, physique, eye, Anglo-Chinese
of quiet, refined gentility; the transparent gown top that shows your skin, fair;
a product of business in the Golden Chersonese,
a bouquet of flowers to caress your fluffed-up hair
to accentuate, no doubt, your height.
Pink, with sprigs of green with tiny white flowers in tow
as you wait for the first dance of the night
by fountain, grass, and string quartet bow,
but for you, perfect to show off the spring in your early age
that in your time, I’m sure was the going rage.
Zöe
You, to me, for some reason are not the same. I see you
as the wife of a sea captain. Why? You’re upset he’s away, yes, a pity;
but that is something you accept, liaisons just a few,
perhaps it’s the look in your eyes, sad, but pretty.
The expression on your lips tells me that you’re a long way away,
the ribbon adds a graceful eloquence to your hair,
a soft, mature woman’s style, of light, classical grey,
who, although alone, wants the world to know that she still can care.
Across your neck, a pale pink bow
help the quiet radiance to grow.
You hang there, on a pink wall, where
years ago, you watched the sherry flow
in the schooner, now in cupboard-prison’s care,
no longer required by her, but I think you know.
I thought I might take you down for a change
but I cannot... the garage, it’s too cold in there;
the china girls too, you might think it uncaring of me
to take you away from the warm lounge air.
A magpie in the garden chatters to its mate
in a half-wit, flapping game
to establish who is the bigger inebriate?
I wish they had less fear, were half tame.
I’m getting chilly here on the oatmeal mat,
the gas hissing, going on again; warmth will come,
as will the sun, when the magpies will chat;
the fridge warbles its sonata, in quiet night hum.
