by Sheila Lockhart
Brisk breezes sweep the New Town street,
Festival madness in her step
She hesitates, peers through the open door
Still there these thirty years and more?
Thinned hair, pale skin, worn slippers on his feet,
A gust quakes her heart in its foundation,
Spots of cold rain splash her face.
He speaks her name, not forgotten then?
She enters, remembering this place, his embrace.
World of blue hills, green skies, a yellow beach,
Palm tree shading dark figures from an orange sun.
The chill clean air can’t penetrate
Such warm confusing lies, beguiling charm,
She stays, not breathing, gasps beneath its weight.