Lost Lands
These jewels, maps, fall from your hands:
the continents spread out, until the colours bleed -
your plunder, spoils, from violet lands,
and in the light, is light on light
red broken on a wheel of gold
the gold itself exchanged or sold.
And in each souvenir, I see your face
painted on a different sea. I touch the treasure -
you watch me touch, I see your pleasure
expand, contract, pulled back by tides
as though your guide does not include
the conquistador's old game.
The game of humming birds and nervous flowers
an elegant dance that circles, hovers -
your shadowed gaze, intent, explores
the boundaries; my hair, my skin, my clothes -
as though I'm terra incognita up ahead
or one who walks on starry shores.
Then something falls:
you start to talk of dust and loss and emptiness,
produce some well worn stones with flaws,
I probe the inclusions far too well
the squandered light of light on light
the light all spent -
I want to stop the slipping night
but cannot stop my mouth
or yours.
Copyright Veronica Aldous - image and poem not to be reproduced without author's permission.
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