Soft Classic

By | 1 February 2013

New room. Pillows thumped into shape.
Twilight, pink and slim as hotel soap
unwrapped and lathered, shrinks.

From the bed, two small windows, one
above the other, separated by a strip of wall
which breaks the contained palm in two.

The wall is where you don’t want to be,
where the dark call originates, so opt
for the tree elongated by the disruption.

Waves raise marbled faces and unravel
a lace-of-foam that the calmer parts of us
find touching. Know an increase in the sea

breeze would make it so-so.


Your serviette tonight is a snow-white
bird-of-paradise folded by a village girl
who has chosen the name Dawn.

The couple is quite. Their eyes soliloquize
(inside a fetching silence that threatens to over
extend itself) a shift from garden innocence

to an inkling otherwise, conveyed in down
cast glances, and this hesitation is the branch
jammed in the spokes of a moment which had hitherto

recommended itself as the quintessential vehicle,
the sure wheel. Some running repairs and a walk
digests it best. Admire now the black butterfly

against a backdrop of palms. Swoon under
coconut clusters safe in the knowledge
there are sharks offshore but you braved it,

bobbing beside humble junks that are in turn
dwarfed by trawlers. Kicking the emptiness
with purpose, you’ve grown less ticklish underwater.

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