On the widows’ walk the intoxicating perfume <br />of early wisteria was blended by the blustery March wind <br />into her own sachet of jasmine and lavender. <br /> <br />The purple vines themselves, grape-like clusters, <br />crept up the crisscrossed trellis as if prowling <br />for the invading scents, to repel or to merge. <br /> <br />Her shawl, which covered her head like a mantilla, <br />whipped in the wind like an ultramarine banner, <br />as if a signal or a surrender. <br /> <br />Out there where her eyes transfixed, <br />were yellow buoys, their desolate bells <br />clanging like church bells, funereal. <br /> <br />Out there where majestic clipper ships <br />pierced the line of the horizon <br />lay a promise of the sea <br /> <br />to return to her what it borrowed <br />two years and three months ago: <br />the man who hunted whales <br /> <br />and who was the repository <br />of her heart.<br /><br />Sonny Rainshine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-widows-walk/
