Roses and Rain

Between banks smudged
with fingerprints of amethyst
and sheets of rain
that in slow motion
slides across the perspex
port and starboard panes,
the ferry glides on water
an opaquer shade of grey
than damp October sky,
where in the west
pale cumulus refracts
day's dregs, the buried sun's
diaphanous last swathes
and fading rainbow bands,
while nestled in my lap lie cups
for gold and garnet summerwine
on slender stems, with imbricated
lips of delicate design -
roses, cut before their prime,
plucked from windswept
market stands, to huddle
in my arm's protective arc
as inner warmth expands.

I'm thinking of my friend's eyes
when I place the rosebuds
in her hands, like tokens
of the hidden sun, as evening
trims its pallid lamps -
and then her smile's slow radiance
that leaves the onlooker entranced,
glissade of grace across her face,
pavane becoming sarabande…



for Betty