Entry #17

Vermilion Reflections
by Tessa Edwards


For seven long winters
I carried your picture around
in an old damp suitcase
and now you will be here
on Monday, at noontime.
Is it you that I remember
in your navy blue raincoat
coloured against November?
Did we walk together
through the stench of the Metro
and sit amongst dead butts
in those infernal cinemas?

Now clothed in wispy
garments of solitude
I wait for you to come
on Monday, at noontime.
It is just the rusted sundial
in the parched garden
which warns me lightly
that I still exist in this
place that is so familiar.
I am stifled by the tedium,
and suffer from the carnage
of memories which burn
and sear the core of me.
But I wait, and bake bread
and gather herbs and fresh figs
for us to eat on Monday
at noontime.

The flame trees are in flower now,
the evening pink flamingos settle
on the shores of placid lakes.
The room is large and moonlit,
with soft carpets from the Orient.
There are pools below which appear
like clouds of polarised light,
and they dim and recede
when the sun sinks low
and calls in the lonely night.
Did you know that
I am quieter now,
and more melancholy?
Or that this garnet liquid
with a constellation of reflections
cradled in its silver chalice
is my only succour now
until I melt in you again
on Monday, at noontime.