The terrace had been Luc's idea. Yes!
she'd readily agreed. He loved the view
across the sea. She had the perfect dress
(she hoped), the orange silk – and throws! The hue
of all her auburn hair would be divine
amidst the crimson, ochre. Midday came,
and she began to decorate, align
then realign. The sun-god watched, aflame,
enticed her into breaking from her tasks
and settling slowly on the silken seat;
his rays caress her as she blooms and basks…
and starts to burn. She can't resist the heat.
The hours blaze on. She’s on the brink of fire.
Sol laughs and lusts and rises higher, higher.
F.F. Teague (Fliss) is a copyeditor/copywriter by day and a poet/composer come nightfall. She lives in Pittville, a suburb of Cheltenham (UK). Her poetry features regularly in the Spotlight of The HyperTexts; she has also been published by The Mighty, Snakeskin, The Ekphrastic Review, The Dirigible Balloon, Pulsebeat, Lighten Up Online and a local Morris dancing group. Other interests include art, film, and photography.
The Ekphrastic Review
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