– 49 –

Blanche

The lamp shop people
leave the lights on.

From the café
you can see

the bright
wry myriad.
If only the apathy,
the constancy
of these
umbrellas of light,
faux flames,
lilies,
cones and moons
would
rub off.

How sweet to be
utility,
bulb
not pulp,
not musing on things
as tired
as light or love

nor alas! gulping them,
burnt, from your cup.

– 50 –

Lychee

Blithe Eliza
draped on a purple chaise
scoffing lychees
from crystal
in the latest mock-sophisticate
play

is ad-lib invected by the
theatre owner
for dropping fruit
on his newly-painted
floor.

Eliza should not really
have her silver Indian shoes
smeared with juice
smearing juice
on the purple velvet either,
thinks the director,
and lets the owner
have his fifteen minutes.

Soon-to-be-
above-all-this
-anyway Eliza,
rubbing her belly,
delivers her next line,

‘Lychees
are such mysterious fruits.
I've seen them crushed, and in pieces
but I've yet to see one
whole.’

– 51 –

That girl Flora

jumper tied
round her waist,
pats the dogs
that greet her at their gates
as she passes under
new blossoms.
Their warm snouts
rest
in her palm.
She holds their mellow eyes.

I know,
I could tell her.
Days like this
make you feel you've picked
the best bits
out of youth

and tossed the rest
to the wind
of the beaten way.