Thursday, April 17, 2014

O is for Observer

oak (Photo credit: mindfulness)


Hidden in oak tree's shadow,
I lean forward…
gripping the branch with clawed feet.
He leaves the inn. Laughing,
a toss of burnished hair;
in excitement I almost lose my balance,
flap my wings to steady myself.
He looks up.
I pull back from his piercing green gaze,
burrow my head in my shoulder.
He must not see me.
His footsteps distance, and I
dare to peek again.
A pretty young thing leans
out a window to catch his eye;
I hiss at her, but his attention
already moved on
to assist a woman into her carriage;
she is no beauty, wrinkled as I.
Breath rushes out in surprise.
in my hesitation, I almost lose him,
over rooftops I fly
skittering across tiles
to perch on a ledge.
I crane to see but he enters a shop;
I yearn to follow, to speak to him,
but shudder at the sight he would see.
I retreat to the oak,
settle my crooked back into the hollow,
wrap tattered, filthy wings around ungainly breasts,
and dip my head, that my oily hair
covers my haggard visage.
How would a prince such as he
see past looks to love this harpy?
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