Thursday, 5 December 2013

The Jeweller's Egg

She never liked attention but here she is being photographed in her garden. She reaches out and her white arms are longer than I remember. Sections of metal beaten into petals of pearl lie on the grass. A mallet, the bit you do the thumping with, shaped like an egg. About the size of some prehistoric egg lying in sand waiting to hatch out some green-tailed monster with a pea-sized brain that can only compute killing. She wears black and her hair falls across her face, so maybe she hasn't changed that much.

6 comments:

  1. The tenderness of memory (perhaps braids of memory) and photography's attention-clasp. Lovely poem.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Yes, braids of memory. Exactly so. Thank you Red.

    ReplyDelete
  3. This makes for a lovely picture. Those long white arms against the petals of pearl on the grass are something..

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank you so much, WB. It's been a long hard day so it was great to come home to your comment.

      Delete
  4. Still, something tells me there's something about her might make being stranded together on a desert island an uphill proposition, even if it was all on the gentle downslope, there on that curious dinosaur-egg island forever lost in time.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. You know, that's the one perspective I haven't considered things from. And it's the wisest, truest one. Thank you, Tom.

      Delete

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