The Veranda
She sits on a heat patterned veranda,the old picnic rug spread out
over the sun baked, worn wood.
Naked to the waist
the suns heat causing
dewdrops of perspiration
that fall between the cleft.
She winds her hair up
into a knot, allowing
some semblance of cool
to ruffle at her neck
In the yard, beyond where she sits,
yellowed grass cries
in its neglect, parched and arid.
The hedge that hides the house
is alive with the sound of bees
and butterflies wisp in amongst.
The old wicker chairs
with plump faded cushions
provide a screen to hide behind.
She plays a gentle hand in the old
metal tub, that contains cool water ~
a gentle flick on hot skin
to soothe, cool, a welcome balm
as dreamily she will sit
made languid by the heat,
her skin, her body
her freedom of thought
as a lazy sun, smiles - benign
Poetry by Elle
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Written on 2009-05-07 at 13:29
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