The Postcard

Two Poems

Weekly in the Sevilla morning crush, he’d
stalk El Jueves. Fresh clean shirt, hair slicked back,
another wrinkle frowned upon his saddening face.
Managing expectations, the quest for the love of his life.
The holy grail, now, a long forgotten postcard.

He suspected the chance to meet again had disintegrated 
with the pulp and emulsion. Now merely seeking for the
inspiration, to being the belief in a longed for reunion, 
The  greatest love story that remained un- 
written, sung, performed, or mythologised.

Forty-three years ago they had posed, in a moment, to become
iconic : the zeitgeist. The poster pair, everywhere,
the personification of hope as the most famous of paintings 
was returned to its rightful home: a union of the artist’s 
willed and wished for reunification, promoted in their faces.

❦

You could set your watch by her arrival at the dresser in front 
of the open shuttered balcony overlooking each Madrid morning.
Conjugal wealth dictated punctuality, a Rolex Perpetual and iPhone 
umpteenth delivered. Perfect timing was only ever once an issue.

The personal fragrances of her post-awakening ablutions softened her 
for the finest of silks she would daily slip into - the ones insisted upon 
by the one who had made possible, for her,  this life, this luxury.
The one who had made her, for him, a treasured personal trophy.

As a final seated touch, to her melancholic lips she would add the
disguise of stroked red strength: passion and bluff, then
resting a manicured fingertip to those soft guardians of her secrets
transfer a kiss to the postcard stuck at the lowest point of her vanity.

This timeless reflection of herself, was what most everyone saw,
years before, on a day whose significance was now lost to all
except her, even, she thought, to the one who could offer her 
nothing of her today life bar, perhaps, happiness and true love.

Top: Seville. Above: Madrid both 2024 Nikon d750