The kelpie lunges
through her window,
startles me, but no harm.
She hauls it back,
mimes contrition to my grin.
The lights change to green,
we part with no words.
Though her dog disdains,
the woman waves goodbye
through the glass,
enhances today’s tapestry
with another stitch.
At the café
her hips are the meander of a slow river
as through tendrils of garlic she approaches
to take his order, aware in a moment of his fascination
with the rosebud tattoo scarlet on her bared midriff.
Pen still poised but forgotten, she contemplates him
from under veined lids that border those eyes
of the sea’s grey blue and deep
holding a hint of perhaps
David Cookson lives in South Australia by a surf beach. His work has been published reasonably often, mainly within Australia. He writes both poetry and short stories and is old enough to remember a time without computers...