The Plough-line


As she courses the comb
through the dense locks of her hair,
like the capricious wind
on Summer sand beds of receding river,
I wonder
if she is up
ploughing her beauty
or unveiling a marble statue…
For
while she planted a night-washed baby sun on her forehead
The flowers behind, gave her crown a touch of gilt-edged cloud

27.7.1995

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