Poetry

Her Birthday Walk

His eyes run up and down

From where her hair burns

To where her feet orbit and spin

So that her body turns

On the night of her birthday.

That noisy street she walks

Back straight, endorphins

Play and vodka talks

Like the piper piping his song of glee

And he like Hamelin’s last child follows.

Chemicals seem to make her

Shiver and shine tonight

He watches and wonders if she

Is the same or someone else.  Waits

For the eyes to leave the lights

And turn to him still mesmerised

And unfound in a night where

She only half belongs.

And when his hand glances

Over her arm she starts

Like something naughty

Touched her mind.  Makes

Her countenance suddenly divine.

Sweeps the wind and the clouds

And the sun in one in a smile

That is the same one that

Defies him in the woven darkness

Of other nights.

He unravels it.  Under the strobe

Lights are the bright lights and under the bright

Lights are the soft lights and under those

Are the stars

And her rough unpainted hand that confirms

His heart, which was uncertain whether

The walk was only the one that

Bursts and sings and invents

Over the dunes and down

By the river, which brings him back

To the steady beating heart

That lies on the spot of smooth arm

Under his question mark finger.

Eliot Halt