Friday Night Copyright © Sally Warrell 1993

Your ears dripped
Gold, grapes, baubles;
Your hair an exotic
Coiled edifice,
Treacle dark.

You leaned over me
And breathed
Fantastical stories
Of ballrooms, dresses, dances,
Plays and players,
Dinners and delights.

In bed I would wait for you,
A rustle of satin
And striped shawls,
A burst of perfume
And a cool breeze
From the summer garden.

You perched for a moment only,
Like a tropical bird,
Held my hand
And spoke

Spinning stories
Of a magical world
I longed to grow up into
But have found to be
No more than a mirage,
A web of words.