Scraps of Christina

In this photo Christina of the Golden Hair
is dressed in her red blouse
Fresh bloomed lilac occupying her trembling hands
Her eyes – slightly downcast
She is afraid of a thought that is positioned somewhere
out of the picture to the left of the photographer

In this one she is with two other women
Girls actually
Some kind of cliff behind her rising out of the frame of the photo
Seated with her legs folded under her on a gravel beach
So uncomfortable in the summer, but she wears a dull drab frock coat
Behind her the equipment, machines I can’t understand
She does not see the other women. . .

Here Christina is ankle deep in an ocean the color of tears
Am ocean untroubled by waves
The cobbled beach close behind her
The cliff, now more revealed, mottled but mostly grey-white
Her hands in the pockets of her red pants
Her red blouse, a flag in the wind

She is a blood-flame candle caught in this layer of film
A flickering flame ensconced in a memory

Published by

Chyfrin the Celtic poet

Artist, Poet, Electrical/Biomedical Engineer, Actor, Playwright, Set construction, Educator, Lover of womankind and single malt scotch

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