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If you sit squat, facing her, it might happen -
the soft pat of her feet,
the click of her fingers in the dance.
Her torso is smooth as sun.
Steady leaves of fingers have passed through
centuries across her limbs. She is saturated with love.
What tool has sparked those eyes?
The dome of her body is vast with antiquity,
stretching a straight line eye to eye with me.
It is her Golden Age, wet with echoes of water,
dry with silent time.
She is stopped as a surprised arachnid, her dance stayed,
a Coppelia in her maker's mind -
he might have had her this, or this...
She started when the wet heat bundled into stone,
clinging like the bony weight of bats, an each to each.
We are unable to decipher her pictographs.
Her secrets are safe.
But if I listen hard, she tells me he is here,
coursing through her fiery heart,
lacing the necks of hills with mountains,
holding the writhing trees against the wind.
Her left arm reaches out for him in a sigh of sand.
© Wendy Bardsley 2014