Left outside, the flowers keep their colours, and
woody-brown leaves surround, as petals face
She admires the shades from above, turns back
to the balcony, where useful tools are left about,
from left to right, the rakes and spades, embraced
by bright white doors, no pottery to catch the
She fills a teacup with seeds, kneels to pick
some sage and parsley from the slate,
Left outside, the old fountain is full of dead leaves,
they circle in blinding light, but she knows no water
will ripple them back to life, and climbs back in.
The house has grown silent since he left, windows
still wide open, the pink bougainville he surprised
her with, as if to ignore another season.
She might leave more dates open in her diary, all
of promises behind. How proof turns paper-thin,
once spoken later.
She picks at the oilcloth on the table, follows the
strange wavelets, unearthly colours, and pictures
riding the bus down Corrientes, where plane trees
preserve the turns of a river, a turning of life, now
she is left with this hiding house, running down
her short nights,
the long, long days. Come and contemplate over
tea, she will need new curtains and other illusions
Kate Copeland started absorbing books ever since a little lass. Her love for words led her to teaching & translating; her love for art & water to poetry…please find her pieces @The Ekphrastic Review, Poets’ Choice, First Lit.Review-East, Wildfire Words, The Metaworker, The Weekly/Five South, New Feathers, AltPoetryPrompts a.o. Her recent Insta reads: www.instagram.com/kate.copeland.poems/ Over the years, she worked at literary festivals and Breathe-Read-Write-sessions, recent linguistic-poetry workshops were via the IWWG (more workshops in the making). Kate was born @ harbour city and adores housesitting @ the world.
The Ekphrastic Review
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