Descents end, Nothing slows the flow. Freed, it runs the walls, Seeps from her. Yet, No colour fills the day, She is bleeding. Graceless plunge into intimate fate, cried, railed, the restless flowing ebb, Running with the dead. One last hold on tallow tinged fingertip, blue nails, white flesh. Red stains. "Stay!" All fade to gray. Beyond the black trunk'd trees, the white powder'd snow, No colour, but the colour runs from Juliet. Tangled amongst the vine that was your hair, You slipped those knots, Softly, & loos'd me, Watch'd me fall from heaven, I was with you more than you knew.
Belinda Holdsworth July '96Back to Belinda's Poetry Page.