That's her

I asked no-one
to point at me and say

That’s him
That’s the poet

But you are different
You walk right through me

from time to time
And if I hear your footsteps

your handmaidens
are never far behind

on the strand with
sea-breezes in their faces

or by that fountain
where anyone can be inconspicuous

or looking like a mother of two from Howick
at a buffet-breakfast

or supple limbs pulling her through
the clear blue of a swimming pool

They trade upon their special blend
of insecurity and seduction

a touch on the arm
an ambiguous diamond ring

and stories about the father of a child
or one who might father more

in a future that circles gaily
like a merry-go-round

So I sometimes hear your footsteps
as you pass on through

getting lighter and lighter
and further and further on


Grant Duncan 7.8.10