back on the isles
a confusing white mess
a figurehead files
off her silvery tress
standing up straight
never meant taking aim
in sinking her plait
you avoid taking blame
she walks along, slow
with a bird on each hand
her tumultuous glow
mirrors water on sand
and this do you cross
with your opening light
upon the wave’s toss
in the soft silken sight
your pining betrays you
as you spy from afar
your pining betrays you
as you gaze at her star
your pining betrays you
too distracted to note
your pining betrays you:
her locks are afloat
Copyright L.M. 2007.
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