Italiana
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An unutterably old lady sits by the fireside alone
It is the middle of winter, snow falls outside
No-one has called on her for months
In her wrinkled hand a photograph
The girl is smiling, she was always so happy
The lustrous dark hair tumbles about her shoulders
So shiny those curls, she must surely have just washed it?
Eyes bright with the hopes and dreams of youth
Hers, the prettiest visage God ever contemplated
Perched coquettishly on the swing
Something in the pose reveals the chrysalis within
Not yet adult, her childhood fills its last valise
Preparing to depart with all its beloved possessions
Maybe to pave the way for a new owner not yet born
Girlish tease, flirtatious promise
Both are present in that sweet expression,
flared hips and those curved delights beneath her uniform.
