Treasure Island

Seamus Hogan

(Ireland)

Boudoir.


Evening again lays down shadow
Like a cardplayer
With a hopeless hand.
At the bend in the avenue
A Fragrance of honeysuckle
Gathers up overhanging dusk.

Three trees by the bedroom window
Are unwinding the final strands
Of daylight from their branches;
With silent hands
You are winding another night
Through your hair.

What is it, is it that is in the air?
Something finished, or a thing just begun?
While the orchestra underneath what happens
Still plays on, will play on,
You go on twisting and untwisting
Nights through your hair,
Nights out of your hair.

Submitted: Thursday, March 20, 2008
Edited: Tuesday, November 23, 2010
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