ONLY A DREAM
Hot springs, flaming arrows, permafrost on her patio,
a coloured shadow, pistil and stamen, downfall
of stilettos. ‘If you haven’t written a good line
for years,’ she told him, ‘there are others who have.’
Something was casting a shadow in two colours
on the gazebo ceiling. ‘Shouldn’t it please you
that good lines are being written, even if not
by you?’ Hot springs and flaming arrows, shadows
in colour on permafrost, a million sea-exits
on this aircraft. She didn’t know the poetry of it,
she was the poetry, pistil and stamen and downfall.
He wrote a poem for her about the night. It had
a million sea-exits. One of them caught her eye.
Hot springs and flaming arrows, shadows on permafrost.
© Ciaran O'Driscoll, 2010