Musings

Slender stalks of brilliant green Their red heads bobbing in mirth Standing in a glass of clear water The gerberas watch over my hearth. Ten heads stare at the house Taking in its smells and sounds They nod gently as the drape billows Acquiescencing with the wind's mirth. I watch them from the road below The dash of red on my window sill. Perfect forms on tender green Their red heads nodding in gentle breeze. Drenching their stalks in her brilliant white The sun back lights their faces Perfect light with perfect form Synergise over a cold, glass, vase.

As the young boy holds her arm The lady smiles shyly I wonder if this is the touch of love As she lets go her fear And relies on his grip. A weeny toddler makes haste He has lost his mother's face The bus is crowded and he is lonely And grips a skirt with the familiar hem. A little further into the city Two lovers chase each other into the crowded bus He busies himself with her auburn hair As she cocks a snook at my love lorn stare. The bus rambles through manicured roads Of soothing calm and eternal beauty I write my name on the frosted glass Drawing out extended twirls on a name that has lost its hold I hope to make love to the sound that once defined me. Thinking of the varied touch I wonder which one defines love The frail arm in a trusting grip, A clamour for the familiar face Catching the sun through a mesh of red Or my name in a cold glass plate?