Beneath The Southern Cross

She sits in an old wooden chair,
the white paint peeling
from long exposure to the salty air.
Each breaker that crashes upon the beach
sucks greedily at the sand,
like a foamy, bloated leech.
Standing amid the slim twisted palms,
his gaze transparent,
he allows her image to soothe him like a healing balm.
She searches the sky for the Southern Cross,
licking her pomegranate lips and sighing
as though savoring some invisibly delicate sauce.
Drifting on the warm night breeze,
the sound of a distant lute
sends its muted oration across the seas.
She turns her gaze upon his shadowy face;
One small hand reaches out
and beckons him home to the shelter of her embrace.

Lora Frikken ~ 10-9-04