They came upon her at a corner table
And she, drinking hot coffee and looking at the rain.
The rain swirling at the edge of the doorway
Sent a lone leaf to reconnoitre entry.
Wet tiles. And the warmth within barred it admission.
They stood there in their dripping coats and shook
Themselves and their damp hats at her.
I sat beside her in the public gardens
And she told me of her loves;
Gazing afar off and turning a golden rose
Between her fingers. The bridge and
The old houses clinging to the hill.
A watery place, half golden in its memory.
And the span of steel caught in majestic glory
In her mind. Turning in her mind, a knife.
And then we walked beside the river and the ancient
Stone withstood the waves.
Winter came upon us
On a summer’s afternoon. And sent its memories of rain.
Drip! And over the stone it ran in milky lines;
And in bold relief against the ashen sky,
A seagull hanging there and the waves beneath it.
Palms sweeping the sand at their feet.
Clean and clean. Drip! And the sky held back
Its feeling from us and sent short breaths
To show that life still was. Drip!
And she; gazing past me and turning a golden rose in her fingers.
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