Grenadier Pond
I took a picture the other day,
The subject, unaware of my intrusion.
I glanced her way to catch her mid-read
And I fancied it was poetry.
The setting would allow no other subject of her book.
It must be poetry to hold her attention
On so glorious and blessed a day,
Filled with sun and gentle breezes
Wafting sweet intoxicating scents
And carrying birds upon the wing.
Seated on a rock wall,
Her hair was honeyβd
And her legs were impossibly long.
Her head was angled slightly down,
Her eyes intent upon their purpose.
Her knees angled to secure her book.
Lest it slip away.
The pond beside her rippled
With the cadence of the words she muttered
Under her silent breath
Heard by none save me.
Swans framed her shadow on the water
And I thought, for a moment
They had come to ferry her away
To fair Shalott
Amid the mourning willows
And gentle breezes.
She took more than just my breath away,
Conjuring images from long ago
And times I had forgotten.
Trees wept for the sight of her seated there,
Alone with Byron, Shelley, or Keats.
Her scent was new-mown grass
And lilacs carried on springtime airs
And the sight of her seated there
Brought an unbidden tear to my eye
And the memory of her seated there
Brought an ache to my heart
And the vision of her seated there
Was framed forever
In my lens.
I stole her soul
And locked it in my camera.
Palimpsest 
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