In a river scene scratched and painted over by time they watch from the bank as the last boat passes. Wisp of russet clouds between hills, the history of desire is written there. Above their blurred embrace where an angel’s song should be, strands of lost tackle gently rattle.
Chambray, her mother said, when asked what shade of blue it was. But isn’t that a town in France? Surely she’ll go there one day, pass through its blue square, breathe its soft blue air, its lanes laid down in the meandering pattern called Drunkard’s Path, sealed with blue frosting.
Fragrant berries of red juniper she mashes with a pestle and sets by the fan to freshen the rooms. Vanishing rosettes of her breath against the glass. She had faith and had faith but something calls her like a child. In her dream Earth moans and turns away, spreading pale membranes of dawn.
Stephen Knauth | Frederica >> Contents | Mudlark No. 45 (2012)