"Another Sunday In The Park" ....dedicated to Margot, with love. She said that it was about the watching. The angle that the sun falls upon his brilliant neck, The melancholy shadows cast on the widow's midnight veil, On the graceful curve of the hand that clutches the parasol Instead of the trembling fingers of the artist. She always knew it had to be that way, But some foolishly refuse to believe Until the very last word is echoed Upon the sad eyes, immortalised, Concealed beneath a parasol. Your words move my spirit, But they are wrong; They always have been, and in the end, A Sunday afternoon is no more than that, And as with every other day, The sun fades into twilight, And then into everlasting darkness. Tonight,the late sky is warm Blushed like naked shoulders beneath translucent eyes, As the sun transforms into a golden cocoon Opening to release The twilight-stained butterfly of another forgotten memory; Her grand wings, dipped in the blood of time And timelessness, Forever painting the air with Collages of opaque moments and invisible tears, Dark-blue-violet as the ocean. She said it was the seeing and the knowing; The sadness,the wisdom, The art- The trembling,clutching eyes That were never before beautiful, Gazing sadly beneath the immaculately aesthetic Parasol.
Reason for writing:
Dedicated with love to my dear friend Margot, who lost her long fight with illness earlier this year. Every Sunday that goes by, I shall remember....
Birth sign: Capricorn
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