Your image is drawn
in the veil of incense smoke,
in the lifeline on my hand
stretching towards faded chains.
You are an art.
Not a single moment
or a flicker in the artists eye, captured.
No.
You are rerun, rehearsed, rewritten.
Turned from leaf to leaf,
you are chapters torn messily from a spine;
spills of ink that blotch whole scenes;
illustrations reworked and restored.
And I watch as she emerges -
radiant, pink in the flesh,
crowned in silver curls -
a faded voice;
an out-stretched hand;
a touchable dream.
William
18th September 2017