As she forlornly treads with distant eyes across yonder broken orchard,
Where the dark green ferns grow like netting threaded through ragged men,
Yearning for energy in transference from sunshine transmuted heartbeats,
Open in misunderstood embrace of some familiar dream somehow replicated,
Lo, for this sodden face bears the mark of glutton behind glimmers and trinkets,
Though gaunt and dismantled therein dwells the sinister drawn curtain,
Behind which unbearable troubles reside in tragic baskets made of stolen ribbon,
Tactile residue forms on delicately adapted expressions like a painted lady,
Once gathering blankets in the evening picnic gardens now retired for the night,
In this scenic temporary drama of twists and turning truths of spirit,
A merry gentleman sees opportunity to fulfil deep set desires of legend.
Rowan Blair Colver