Wednesday, 13 April 2011

13/30 NaPoWriMo

Insalata Mista

The smell of a just-struck match
in a Tuscan piazza
brings back electric green
memories of a half dreamt girl.

A slender silhouette
spun of silk,
turns a moonlit corner,
in a dress that moves like smoke.

I follow the scent of
jasmine and abandon
down nameless streets
that hide secrets.

A smile of promise
and forgotten summers
melts into mist
as I make the jump back.

“And for main course sir”? asks the waiter.
I don’t know but I will answer
with more certainty than when you ask me
“What were you thinking”?

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