Martell Overture Part Ii: 'solstice Dance Iv' Poem by Ross Mackay

She whithers in the wind,
she crumbles in my hand.
I set the table for Sunday dinner,
just for myself, no one else was coming.
Still she helps me set up,
still she is ever present
in my half-smile-
a stain on my portrait
when the mirror sighs with me.

She has bad taste in headwear,
she's still better dressed than me.
I set my watch to get up tomorrow,
I'll be preparing my own breakfast.
Still she'll watch over me,
still she'll sip her tea,
in the halfmoon-
a chip on my window
where the raindrops comfort me.