Dripping wet

Suspended in misty throws

Of tinted blue

and shaded sun

The scent of rain mingled with black diamond bells

The chisel of the trunk deep-rooted,

marked a hundred years old,


Tainted by the woods,


Wings discoloured,
Breathing laboured,

Bruised ankles

and swollen limbs

The ground tough on bare feet

Carving tattoos in red-ink,

Moths of grey and dull

Flitter above her nose

Little lightshades

A veil to protect the face

A velvet ribbon drawn behind her waist

Tying the threads of the day

Tethering between the early mornings of May.

14 thoughts on “Lightshade

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