Whitewash

As you whitewash the walls

you demand that I am opulent.

Spreading your arms wide

behind you a black shadow grows,

wings fanned, it steals up and out.

"You are harsh!" you caw, pop eyed,

tenting your hands to stop my flight.

With your roof over me

I am slain by the redundancy of hope

and weep. You sing, "You are mine!"

Obscured by your timpany of percussive notes

I grow, I straighten.

Strong and limber like a Poplar in the breeze

I jettison you for tastes new. To search

for a season of cherries sweet and round.

The copyright of this post belongs to Moira Cormack