I haunted her garden
Like a memory ...
Seeking her scent
Or just a glimpse.
She, the Chinese Princess,
Wafts daily around the shrubbery.
I am an ornament, bewitched.
All this was a thousand years ago.
Now she has a beard
And goes on crutches, feebly.
Her skin has withered,
Her hands are lizard hands.
And I am a stone
Crouched in recollection
By the-pool of her forgetfulness.
by Phil Brown
... and more Poetry ...
Copyright © Phil Brown