Into the Mist

In the distance I can see her,
as if in a dream,
the fog caressing her body
like the hands of men,
each holding a cluster of minutes
wrapped around their fingers
like threads,
as she dances for them,
the dance of seven veils
without the veils.

All eyes are upon her
though none but one matters
and she dances her dance
just for him,
undulating among the crowd
with music on her lips
as she reaches to lick his fingertips
with a slow swirl

And when they have woven every minute,
like webs, around her body
in multi-coloured strands,
and withdrawn, empty handed,
to fade into the mist once again,
she bathes in a milk bath
like Cleopatra,
lapping it up and letting it drip
from the tip of her tongue
before she too fades into the clutches of time
like a puff of smoke,
with nothing left but words
laid out end to end
stretching as far as the eye can see
and beyond.



march 2011