Poetry

medea

she hasn’t moved for days

a washboard held up

to shield her face from the sun

brown fingerprints

lift and dribble in the scorch

the knot cut clean

hangs aimlessly

rolling over her thigh

we leave a cup of coffee

finger biscuit resting

by her feet

the light plays its spectral game

with each sugar crystal

her surface gleams

gun metal grey

Gary Hughes

© 2014