The Flower Seller
The Flower Seller
Amelia wares un- cuticled painted nails,
She hop scotches a pirate on one leg,
Tip-toeing long sun cast morning shadows,
beneath billowing hand stitched, salty sails;
Under an early Sun, fingers whir in a motion sweet,
directing an imaginary rainbow of colours to run,
In the trodden silk grass; marked in herbs and fallen pears, while!
Fragrant is a Jasmine breeze, as the Flower cart rumbles the street.
There is a nestling in the spoked wheel pink hue friction,
the dark pupil eyed horse gazes un-blinkered beneath its mane,
peers out of its global socket spooked; unsteady, unsure,
Amelias fingers fanned out now, a serene juxtaposition.
Crickets emit now, in the felt unseen heat, a high noted sonata,
For the flower seller, shes shaded, except from hot air thro her sandalled feet
The flower seller trudges onwards without a sale, while a balconied young Maid, sings solo to herself, a sweet half whistled performance, puccini’s cantata.
Morning becomes its distant day, roasted coffee bean aroma drifts her way,
On sweeping wings of African winds, her straw hat tumbles, she fumbles,
pitted cobbles win; the juggled disappearing bonnet, like a torn feathered falcon,
It dances on, chased by a ferrel Cat; sharp claws grasping, a prize for a stray.
Evening draws a shimmered line, above white horses, (eeing the never; time,
In the retreating back drop, wooded ; trumpeting bark of Stags brakes the stillness !
Rips out, the creeping-darkness, strung out like threads of unwanted faded garments
its left to time to dismantle this opera of thorns, of minutes and hours, her paradigm.
So, Amelia sits rests her sleepy head in the Flower sellers lap,
the subsiding pain, once again, counts the meagre gains,
those long past sensual moments, are floated on seas of tears,
sharp time dismantles us, falling petals on wrinkled skin, short on heartbeats within,
It is, dead quiet !
Copyright ©
John Lusardi
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