A blueberry scarf
is the ring of her neck, a promise
to remain warm when clutched by the chills of love – it’s enough.
Enough to block the ravaging eyes, keep her head
snug and rooted on her shoulders,
keep her mouth speaking foreign languages
and her ears keen.
I must have alarmed
the kittiwakes of morning, for they echoed in her glasses,
flapping wings bracing her reddened nose. The day
is not cold, but the wind gushes icy and she was
dressed for Spring.
She looked lonely, there at the jetty in sheer tights and a hat.
I’d thought I’d play her my harmonica,
tell her my life’s story, blow her an indiscriminate kiss
that might have missed her, had the bus not rolled up,
had I more courage, had I not turned
and proceeded to walk the wharf
alone.
