Poetic Leanings

Mon cher Emile

Far, far from the Eagle’s perch
Between cragged rocks
And beating waters
There is
An imperceptible unclenching
A leisurely unclasping
A fist first
A locket last

All of it
Noiseless drama
In a grey-mirrored theatre

Summer, mon cher, rains on Wintered moorings
And the difference is known only within.

“Emile. There it is; his name…But that’s not it. Not at all. This is how it was.”
Sylvia Plath

4 replies on “Mon cher Emile”

>Ah. I loved this, so perfectly describes the internal feelings, and we hope that doesn't show on the exterior!

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