An Involuntary Shudder
VII.
An involuntary shudder as I watch her
Spread
Softening butter over a sliced scone;
Much exaggerated flourishing whilst
Wielding the ornately designed, silver-plated
Table knife.
On observing, I am firmly convinced even
Stern Hades,
Slinking somewhere deep in the
Abomination's of his fearful afterlife,
Admidst the terror sunken beneath all of,
What was, once, vibrant Cyclades,
Would, on viewing, blanch with more than
Just a modicum of alarmed apprehension;
Even more so than his inner, dread
Thoughts of which are not well known:-
The failed abduction of an unloving and
Reluctant wife...
But then rash Theseus always did have
A keen eye for the young ladies.
Maybe the truth really is you never did
Have much of a chance after all?
Cursed, right off, from the very start.
The self-perpetuating lie, in all its
Appealing vulnerability, insidiously
Fashioned into what most wrongly envisage;
They used to say it wore down the heels
Under ten million sandals.
Oh! how I detest all of what pertains in
The unseen flaws of your idolatrous image:-
That which reduced all the civilized world
To naught but a chaotic shambles!
And...at the onset of this monumental
Furore:-
One dissatisfied spirit who would
Dispassionately chart,
Complete with scowl, sneer and wry
Grimace,
A path for destruction to follow on.
For, did you not always openly rejoice in
All the details of outrageous scandals?
Taking the door, reemerging into the
Bustling street;
I note how poignant it is that the
Cherry blossoms have all but blown.
These fragile little petals, lying idly
Scattered over warming pavements,
Prompting comparisons with those long ago
Flowering Almonds;
Recalling the flaring of nostrils assailed
By a bitter fragrance
That pervaded throughout wide avenues...
Drenched the cool, sheltering gardens;
Sacred blossoms, crushed and stuck to
The underside of our calloused feet.
But, ahhh, now it would seem we have
Both outgrown,
What, once - was the whole world!
Although, unlike you, despite our separated
Imposition of shared estrangements,
I still passionately yearn for blackening
Olives, the ripening ears of the golden,
Shimmering croplands.
Copyright © John Fleming | Year Posted 2018
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