Portents.

I can see her now -

reading tea-leaves;

the swirls and patterns

in the cup,

turned three times,

then inverted,

were shapes and signs

of a destiny,

too obscure to contemplate.

I hoped the hand of Fate

would not touch me,

unless the omens were good,

and then I’d believe

and be happy.

I can see her now,

at the window

where she stood,

washed the dishes,

or prepared the food.

Her gaze the kind that

life makes perceptive.

I knew she knew things -

things that escaped me -

so deep they were,

and near to Truth.

I can see her now -

“I want to write about

the sky,” I said -

“I’m thinking about the clouds

and the colors and the mood -

in the morning at sunrise,

or when evening comes,

or when the swallows

make bee-swarms

round the pier

or when lightning strikes,

during a storm

or when the sky’s

heavy and the gray sea churns

in winter time,

before the snow.

I can see her now,

when I said,

“All I see are the blue

skies of summer

and fluffy clouds

and rainbows

of my childhood

days of gold.

I can’t remember, Ma.

I can’t recall all

the skies

of all my years.”

Copyright Suzy Davies, 24/07/2017.

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