By: ailsaandlisa

Jun 25 2012

Category: free verse, poem

1 Comment

He pours the Perrier
with perfect panache
and smirks a small smile,
relishing his natural alliteration.

They are sharing a picnic by the river
with artisan food they bought
as they strolled through the market;
it’s a habit he picked up in Italy.

The meadow is fresh, English, buttercupped.
He’s tall and broad, his voice deep and warm.
He’s clever, well-read, engaging, attentive.
The past should be ditch-water under the bridge.

But she’s in the wrong film.
She yearns for rain, fog, screaming,
to push his handsome bloody face
into the choking current.

She draws breath, speaks the accusation
and smiles her secret satisfaction.
She has uncorked the horror.
Now the Thames will run red.

He throws his head back, roars, tickled.
It’s boiling oil off a duck’s back.
She can’t stop him being the hero
and she looks into his dark eyes

to deep sea where no light breaks through
and the fish have those luminescent dangly bits.


One comment on “Isis”

  1. Puppet from Teresa Wilson‘s fabulous installation, The Ecchoing Green, at Barnaby Festival 2012 in Macclesfield.

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