A sense of painted eyes and dark red hair
Across a room; perhaps we met and spoke.
I sipped my tea, not sure why I was here,
noticed as you do some friend of friend
you may not meet again. I sipped and left
I wanted to get home and write some verse.

Her face sometimes appeared, when, writing verse
I thought of beauty. Or perhaps her hair
the shade precise I needed. I was left
with her in mind. Lifted my phone and spoke.
Talked easy as to any older friend
A week or two, and then she moved from here

to other cities. I stayed scribbling here
sestinas, sonnets, other sorts of verse
She read them sometimes, Facebook was the friend
shared them with her. Showed pictures of her hair
distracting me from verse. We never spoke
wrote once or twice. We’d met and then she left

Her image was the trace that she had left
You listen to my verse, and you will hear
whispers and traces. But I never spoke
nor thought of her, except that in my verse
red dress, sly smile, her finger twining hair
flash past, no more than any other friend

My verses speak so much of friends. This friend
I hardly knew. There’s not much story left
I travelled, rang her, met for lunch. Her hair
was as remembered. There’s no tale to hear.
Held hands a little. And I knew my verse
would change, and she’d be all the words I spoke

A little while. It was of her I spoke
Said Aphrodite, muse, but always friend
teasing a hint of love in every verse
Knowing I would not see her soon, I left.
She was so far away, my life was here.
We kissed just once. My finger touched her hair.

These words I spoke the best of what is left
Chose friendship even though there’s aching here
turned into verse, but ah! Her russet hair.

People will remember all the sonnets from the autumn – this will go with them


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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3 Responses to EPILOGUE 1

  1. Beautiful sestina, Roz! Are your poems in print anywhere?

  2. coth says:

    Thank you Roz – nice one.

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