Evenings, after cook fires dim
and the chatter of children subsides
into the silence of a conch shell,
she picks her way through salt hay
to a cliff's edge, draws a bow
made from her hair, plays violin to the sea.
At first her fingers fumble then find
their rhythm as when spindling a loom.
Behind her the laundry line signals
semaphore to nothing; sails furl
and slacken on the horizon.
Chin crushed to rosewood,
face gentled by the beam,
salt spume prickles bare ankles
and she is loosed from her tether
to the man in the wing-back
tamping the throat of his meerschaum
with a yellowed thumb; eyes the color of theft
Poem Copyright © Ken Ashworth 2002.
All rights reserved.
|