Tuesday 31 July 2012


She wakes up
At fifty

Slightly dressed
In shocking black

To mark the passing
Of chances for wellbeing

And if she weds again
It will be without
The pretence of white

She tosses her wild
Jet hair at convention
And gawking passers
Who see nothing

Beyond the black
And body flaunting

And if they are
She is glad
For having done
With pleasing

She maintains custody
Of eyes cast upwards
An ipod filling her ears
With sounds
Of her own choosing

No longer hearing
The negative wave
Of the radio

She shields her hidden
Soul from all invasion

Only the invited now
Are admitted

It is the man of the road
To whom she offers
Her lips

For a brief taste
Of the sweetness
Only he can recognise

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