Nymph, Sylph, Mirror-glass
The water suspends,
As warm as a womb,
It whispers currents,
From the bloom of my own
Languor.
The air, she lays the steam
So soft and slow against the mirror-glass,
So soft and slow like mother lays
Her child in the bassinet.
Then, unburdened,
And left fresh-skirted and alive with chill,
She kisses me in the lover's nook -
The crook of the neck.
Her tease is tender:
She is right.
Its time that I got up.
My eyes wander to the mirror,
But the steam lays across,
So I, still and humid,
Am a ghost-in-the-glass.
Too tall, perhaps?
Yes, that.
The spectre, it is foreign --
But perhaps a strange and elder sister of myself
Looks back through a glass darkly.
And when I nod to her,
She nods back.
Cold, heartfelt, compassionate.
And this gentility,
Perhaps,
It is enough.
(image courtesy of nutmeg designs) Read More......
