Skip to main content

Lilac and Musk

© Shers Gallagher November 2013

Her scent is lilac and musk 
and as purposefully lingering 
as a Parisian city on display. 
                  
Hers is a happy soul,
an English waltz in a world of entangled Frenchness
which goes no further than a simple love of dance
led away from all the rumbas of despair.

As clouds diminish over Montmartre
she does not struggle with the stars
that perform for shadows of lightning 
and echoes of thundered applause.

It is enough, she thinks, to simply play.

Aisling Books


Comments

  1. Ah, peace, play simply, enough...all in a single moment, wherein I spend most of my life.
    The present moment, lived in grateful attitude and love, can extend to countless moments...
    of happiness

    Comparing the "scent of a woman"
    with the sweet smells of a city
    brings on an eye-closing moment of thought.

    WELL-MADE Sher!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Raised by a Fly-boy Father...who could not sit still

©Shers Gallagher 2016
Over miles with him we 'rode or bust' to this and that highway and some other byway that stretched across the Great Divide.  He settled in the end, back to where he started. And I, like him, having been raised in motion, could not sit still. Over miles alone I trekked across lava rock that glistened like jagged points of death and Steppes that went nowhere until they sank into the sun. Only then, like my father, did I arrive with a yearning  to come back home.
Aisling Books

The Call

©Shers Gallagher 2016
The days grow colder and my heart grows bolder
to hear the call of the totem wolf, 
though limbs begin to rattle like the branches of a tree
as leaves turn bright before they fade and quietly fall,
drifting down and crumbling into air 
that smells of crackling pine and roasting logs of cedar.
I missed you then as I miss you now. 
But most of all I miss my youth 
and the dance I used to be.
Not the dance of whirring bees,
because I never was a hostile takeover. 
I miss the playful shadows of light
and soft breezes on silken feathers.
I miss the easiness of then, 
though, in truth I’m more physically comfortable now. 
And yet I’d give it all up for only a few more 
playful shadows of twilight and silken days. 

Aisling Books

Ardy’s Plight at the Privy – Fairy’s song

Excerpted from 'Uncommon Boundaries: Tales and Verse' ©2012 SM Gallagher
[Dedicated to my granddaughter, Maya Annalisa Trask, turning four-years-old today!]

A large Irish family filled up two of the long pinewood bench tables at the Hare and Hunter - the small medieval fairground restaurant that had a larger than average terrace, catering to the sit-down crowds of wandering festival goers. This particular family appeared to be drinking more than eating, which wasn’t uncommon in the sweltering heat of a midsummer’s day in the shire. 

I sat at the table’s far end, furthest from the congested masses, as it was my short pause from working the lanes as a paid entertainer in fantasy costume, blowing stardust on delighted children, getting into mischief with the locals, and tickling tin whistles and whatnot – all the things one could imagine of a proper fairy of a local shire. During my pause, however, I didn’t want to be bothered for fairy wishes and the like. Instead, I ordered a pint…