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... 

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Déjà vu

Before you are born,

I paint your half smile.

I see a schoolboy tie;

your sensitive hands touch

an open book.

Your voice floats high

above playground noise,

the sound of scissors.

I hover restless, long,

until your hair is no longer the color

of pencil shavings,

until you speak the low

calm of a red rose.

tk/ September 2013

Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth for beautifully reading this poem. 

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