Reveries of Frances.
Her flight is two hours late.
It’s pushing midnight.
O, how I wish I had the stamina of Frances,
perched on the balcony of her high rise
in the peppercorn tree hooting for her love.
She’d be at it all hours of the night.
By morning she’d be gone
but back again the next night.
She was welcome as a full moon, the stars.
I know love is as good a reason to hoot
as any other.
Christ, she had great lungs.
Shone a torch up there once
but she retreated to a backroom up there
in the peppercorn tree.
Spring after Spring she’d come
then one Spring, the year of the bush-fires,
The peppercorn tree seems empty now
like a fridge with no food in it.
*pic courtesy of wiki commons