Women on the Veranda, a poem

Michael Borich, art design by Lynn Borich

Women on the Veranda

Box elder shadows lie across the twilit rail like tatting no one bothers to gather up and mend, this end of day, years ago, autumnal the air suggests, a lavaliere of fading sun, what's left of wind at vespers, O not so melancholic, as one might think. How softly spoken, that dove just now, those wrens unsettled at the eaves, mother and daughters on the swing, the wicker glider, at rest against the balustrade. How simply chiaroscuro a mise-en-scene, more gauzy past the sidewalk as lamps come on and leaf smoke lingers, and houselights, momentarily, bejewel the avenue. What's said in undertones is out of hearing beyond the lawn, say to a boy in hiding inside the privet, though he enjoys the musicale of voices and silhouettes at languor after dinner and more the over-ripe patchouli they exude, on the verge of ecstasy and decay. Night is coming on and still the women stay. The moon unveils its radiance. A luff and lull and coolness through the branches and soon, how soon, they stir to leave, to shed their lightly haloes and let the cricket colloquy swell and hold sway.