Full
rounded heart,
Eyes that are sore with weeping,
Dark like and arrow piercing,
And ever the hand is writing.
You
draw yourself, so many new lines.
Role after role you sketch, and toss away.
Mind
that is ever writing
My own hard epitaphs,
Blaming my eyes for weeping
Over dusty photographs.
The
past is a well told tragedy
And you are telling it again and again.
Can you not let it gradually
wash away with the tears, like rain?
You
cling to sorrow like a torn, sad toy.
Sucking out the last stale flavours.
There are times in your life you could yet enjoy.
Even now, the portrait wavers.
Freda
Davis 2009 |
