The luminosity that day
was muted down to grey,
light leaking intermittently
through bandages of cloud,
the temple on the skyline
like a broken crown
of ancient bone,
the rooms of our apartment
stripped of furniture
to bare parquet.
We'd left the dregs of new-year
wine out on the fire-escape
to cool; you huddled
under blankets for our last
night in Athena's city,
while I compulsively assembled
fragments of my life
till dawn - photographs
and letters, paper witnesses
and testaments.
And then, no longer able
to resist the waiting plane,
we poured the tepid,
almost flat champagne,
sipping it as mourners might
at funerals, at solemn wakes,
for it is true that something
died that day...
Flat Champagne
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103100500217
Свидетельство о публикации №103100500217
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