She lies in a stream under a willow. Shadows flicker
where dragonflies and midges hover.
The shells of her ears, floating half-hidden
in the secret weeds of her hair, hear nothing.
Her sightless gaze reflects: a fish-eye image,
filigree of shade and sky,
all of time since Caesar’s mind moved in silence,
a long-legged fly.
This poem was first published in Riverbabble.
Mercedes Webb-Pullman: Graduated from Victoria University Wellington with MA in Creative Writing 2011. Her poems and prose have appeared in Turbine, 4th Floor, Swamp, Reconfigurations, The Electronic Bridge, Otoliths, Connotations, Ekphrastic, Typewriter, and Main Street Rag, among others, and in her books. She lives on the Kapiti Coast, New Zealand.
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