Brunette

Gothic eyes full of unbearable black.

She hums La fille aux cheveux de lin,

collects bones and heather. 

Wellingtons on river moss.

You hear her with the larks.

Lips pursed, as if to kiss.

Heaven and hell are in her arms.

She shows up late, ever so slightly.

You half-remember her,

rack your brain from where.

Drunk on toast and marmalade; 

she takes coffee without a mask,  

unbuttoned.  Part raven. 

Part swan.  Nearly a wife.

Flaxen hair with a ridge of dark.

tk/September 2014 

Lovely interpretation by R.A.D. Stainforth... 

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group. 

Chrysalis

Shadows settle brown-eyed,

The Moth and the Lamp, Cesar Santos 

warm-palmed;

cocoon discarded

in yesterday's cobweb.

Remove the horn-rims,

inherit the bookish gaze,

the soft porch bulb

of a summer night.

Watch the onslaught

of the pink moon,

breathe star-scattered

through the silent spots.

The mottled skirt

holds brunette blood;

unlike the skittish sister,

who butterflies sunshine like toast.

tk/September 2013 

Many thanks to the talented  R.A.D. Stainforth, for reading this poem.