When nothing sits pretty; all thoughts in disarray
angry clouds alter barometers.
I am a fishcake, plucked from your plastic sea
You hold me remotely and nevertheless I dance for you.
From this stricken bridge, our pickled Lily
is a ragged and a snarling twig
stuck fast between grey stones.
Whilst all around
cross Eddies feud and weave,
she brooks her gall, suspended.
Who knows, should snagged forgiveness
truly rip and run again,
the river, reprieved, may turn to smile,
and Lily’s spoiled white lips
would twist and split: a pretty boat.
Her veil, pulled low to save that petalled face,
could raise into a hopeful sail
and pistilled spirit bend and dip
to fast row Lily, blemished but aglow,
to steep her days without bondage and regret
in turbulent regatta.