Smooth skin
Long legs, no fats
Clean, no tattoos.
once a char maid Cinderella
had hard time finding a fella
she crashed a party
thought herself smarty
outplayed Anastasia and Drizella
Anastasia: a crazy name for an Irish woman,
but actually, quite common
in the long-buried book of Celtic Memories.
When she in a reverie came to me
- her 80 year old hair
flying on countless dove-gray moonbeams,
I sensed a pitter-pattering of soft rain
redolent of the green hills
of Connemara falling into my mind.
“I am not dead, and you are not dead.”
She said.
I should have been afraid
but fear takes much more energy
than I had at that moment.
I heard myself ask:
“Then you are alive”?
The soft rain continued to speak
in its gently lyrical brogue.
"The living have no beginning or end,"
she whispered over the raindrops,
"and the dead never were."
I thought about this for a while
as I watched her fly a slow silver sky
over her shoulders.
Then I, in much joy,
thanked her for being forever
my crazily named
aunt Anastasia.
She came to me under tired eyelids.
I never actually met her.
Aunt Anastasia;
quite a common name
for an Irish dame.
She arrived with her long gray hair
flowing like silver moonlight.
She had nothing much to say
but she said it anyway.
Not a very eloquent
or beautiful ghost,
she probably have scared herself to death
pondering on God's wrath.
However she was my aunty
so I welcomed her politely.
As she departed
walking upon spectral clouds
into the midnight blue
she turned just once around
and said:
Who the fecking hell are you?
Standing outside the St. Petersburg palace gate,
I am withstanding the cold as I patiently wait.
May I be lucky enough to see the daughter of the Tsar.
Men throughout Europe realize how beautiful you are.
On this cold winter night, you can shine like a star.
The youngest of four sisters, you are unreachable royalty.
I know that a date with you can never be.
After all, you can do better than a peasant boy like me.
She leans whispering,
whilst black deadened eyes stare back ~~
Amidst translucent
reflection, she now reflects ~~~*
In compassionate sorrow.
Her sibling taken
having disappeared years back ~~
Background beauty blooms
in ignorance of her loss ~~~*
If only they knew the truth.
*This is James Fraser's entry into Constance's 'Reflection' contest
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